


What You Can, While You Can

by SassafrassRex (Serbajean)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (but not premeditated self-harm), Abelism, Absurdism, Adult Fears, And angst, Bit of everything, Descriptions of wound care, Eye scream (tw), Fantastic Racism, Humor, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Shiro n' the Galra crew, Sick Fic, a DARING ESCAPE, a dark dark haggis!, a little thriller, abelism and conflated resentment, absurdism juxtaposed with the humor, bumping elbows with all sorts of genres here, derivative self-injury, h/c, hey look! paladins!, this fic is a haggis, to be followed by an Overdue Chat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-10-05 05:53:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10299083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serbajean/pseuds/SassafrassRex
Summary: Less than a day ago, Thace and his people successfully liberated the Black Lion from imperial custody and sent it spiraling on its way to the Alteans. It was the most ambitious assignment they've ever undertaken. Right now, theyshouldbe keeping their heads down, they should be keeping quiet until the raucous Lion hunt blows over.But the Black Paladin is still imprisoned.And Haggar could be here any time.***Butescapehas never meant the same thing asrecovery.Shiro knows that better than anyone.And the paladins aren't happy to have a Galra in the castle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snippet for writer's block-killing purposes. Then it grew.
> 
> Xpost from Tumblr.

 

 

The doors were locked and the security feed was blinded. This room at least, was safe. “Still no trace of the Lion. I think Kineth just might have actually made it out.” Vex dared a smile. “Objective attained, then."

But Thace shook his head. “No. We’re sending them the paladin too.”

To Vex, that sounded ludicrous, and he didn’t bother holding his tone, “No. They’ll be watching. She’s been wanting this one, she’s on her way now. We just–” he lowered his voice, “We just  _stole the Black Lion_  and sent it off into space.” The single most ambitious thing they had ever done. “Right now, we need to keep our heads down.” He leaned forward, eyeing Thace. “They can find another paladin. Let them.”

Thace shook his head again, stubborn. “The current team of paladins is well-established. Their familiarity with each other is what makes them effective. We haven’t the time for them to find and settle into a new Black Paladin.  _Especially_ not the black one.”

Vex growled. “You could have decided that before, why are you just speaking now?”

Thace rubbed a hand over his eyes before he settled on a real explanation.

“The Black Paladin calls himself ‘Shiro.’  But when he belonged to Haggar,” Vex’s eyes widened, “She called him ‘Champion.’ Do you remember?” 

The remaining color drained from Vex’s face.

Thace didn’t much know the details. Only that there had been a gladiator who’d then belonged to Haggar. Who had vanished and then, unceasing wonders, had reappeared in the Black Lion, with all of Voltron in tow.

“You’re right, she  _has_  been wanting him. He is precious to her.” Thace’s skin crawled. “Or he was once. It doesn’t matter. But you’re also wrong.” He lowered his voice, “Haggar is not inbound. She is onboard this ship, right now.”

Vex sucked in a breath, eyes widened to near doubling.

“She arrived just before official word about the Black Lion’s disappearance. And she went straight to his cell.” No delay at all, and Thace was loathe to consider the implications for any creature who ever captured so much of Haggar’s attention. “Given how he stood up to prior interrogation, I’m willing to hope he might have held so far. But when she hits her stride, he _will_ talk for her. He will tell her everything he knows.” Everyone always did before long. “I’m worried he knows a great deal.”

With his arms crossed, Vex rocked onto his heels. “If escape fails and he’s recaptured?”

“He won’t be.”

From Vex’s face, that wasn’t especially convincing. Thace continued,

“If we are well and truly cornered, then I’ll slit his throat.” He shrugged, “I don’t want to wait for a new Black Paladin. But better that than for Haggar to have him to learn from.”

He pushed away from his place against the wall. “We have one chance. And it must be now, and it may yet fail. But one way or another, the Black Paladin will  _not_ be onboard this ship, this time tomorrow.”

“And if  _you_  are caught? What happens to you?”

“If they catch us,” Thace’s voice was steady, breathing in and out through his nose, “I don’t want Haggar knowing what’s in my head either.” A Galra could bleed out as fast as an alien.

Vex started to argue. But the look Thace shot him had Vex growling reflexively, and backing down before his protestations even left his mouth. With shoulders slumped, he stared hard at the floor.

“Alright. Alright, then where will you hand him off? You can’t wait for Kineth to return.”

Thace shook his head. “No, we’ll use someone else.” He placed a hand on the other’s shoulder, grateful for Vex’s support, but heavy with the promise of yet more obligation. “This needs to happen now, while all eyes are still turned towards the Lion. This evening, before the shift change. You, outfit an escape pod with a cloak. And then give me e commotion. I need that whole area empty.”

And that was that.

 

***

 

As promised, the area around the cells was clear.

Thace pulled his hood on tight, sprinting down the empty hallway. Vex should have looped the security feed, but he wasn’t taking chances. A cloak to blur his outline and a hood to hide his face, in case it needed hiding. Assuming he lived, he did not plan to burn his entire identity for this one scheme.

He shot his way through the door (unlocking it with his palmprint wouldn’t exactly have been wise).

Shiro the Black Paladin lay prone on the floor, clothed in the dark tunic and trousers standard for this ship’s ward.

He did not make for an encouraging sight. The skin of his hand was swollen and dusky, and his fingers were crooked. Only one had been de-gloved; Haggar must have interrupted before his interrogators could proceed with the others. Heavy bruising sweetie up the right side of his face and likely as not, his clothes were hiding a good deal more.

Still, his legs didn’t look broken. And his eyes, slitted open, appeared to be tracking Thace to some extent. But he didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

Thace took one step into the cell and nearly sneezed at the smell of disinfectants. Nose scrunched up, he let out a curse.

Among those in the know, it was a source of morbid amusement that luckless prisoners were always at their cleanest, right after Haggar’s visitations. “When she hits her stride,” he’d said to Vex. When she was allowed to do her work as she pleased, Haggar tangled her victims’ minds past tearing. She splashed their screams all over the walls until sweat, shit, and whatever dignity were puddled out on the floor.

Then the poor fool was scrubbed and sanitized, to wait for her to do it again. Haggar was businesslike about these things. More a scientist than a torturer, she was too fastidious to abide in the messes she made.

The Black Paladin wore clean clothes over clean skin. For all the visible bruising, the only active bleed was the sluggish  _drip drip_  from his hand. Clean, if still unset and unwrapped.

If Haggar had only left so recently that Thace could still smell it – if she’d been with him half the day – then Shiro had all of Thace’s pity, truly he did. But Thace had no time for a prisoner caught in catatonia. Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a disposable double-ended syringe he’d stolen earlier. One side sedative, one side stimulant, they were a hallmark of both prisons and wards.

Shiro watched quietly as Thace knelt beside him, never moving a muscle. Exhaustion to the point of apathy or apathy to the point of bleakness, they looked much the same to Thace, when they were dulling the eyes of the person he’d come here to salvage. Thace flipped the needle in his hand, making the snap-judgement to dial the dose up a notch, before jabbing it against Shiro’s neck to dump the stimulant into his blood.

Between one blink and the next, Shiro’s eyes flew wide and his gaze turned sharp.

Thace leaned in close, speaking quickly. “Keep quiet. I’m here to get you back to your Castleship. Don’t fight, just follow. If you fight me, I’m putting you back under, there’s no time. I don’t  _want_ to have –”

“Help me up.”

“– to carry you, but if– what?” Thace blinked.

Gray eyes flashed. Shiro’s breathing was fast and getting faster. “Come on.” There was a thickness to his voice, Thace wondered if whatever had bruised his face might have also cost him a few teeth. “You could be a trick.” Shiro swallowed, panting. “She’s tricked me before. But,”

He motioned again and his bright eyes looked manic. “Get me on my feet.”

Grabbing his arm, Thace stood. The paladin gasped as he was hauled up, clapping a worrying hand to his side. It made Thace scowl, pressing a rifle to him as he straightened.

“Do not use this lightly. I don’t see us succeeding _unless_ we go unnoticed, so do _not_  use it lightly.”

Thace peered out of the cell. Still clear. “My name is Thace. We’re heading to an escape pod. This sector of the ship should be empty. Once in the pod, I’ll escort you to the edge of this system, where I’ll drop you with a colleague, who will see you back to your Castleship. I’ll return, slip back onboard, and lead the furious search for the missing prisoner. Clear?”

Tremors danced over Shiro’s skin but he seemed not to notice. “Understood.” He hefted the rifle in his good hand, bracing the other against his side. Thace muttered something resembling a prayer, made sure his hood was on tightly, and then took off, with Shiro on his heels.

They made good time. Once or twice they had to duck out of the way of sentries, but they covered much of their distance without yet being seen.

So of course, it had to fall apart.

“Thace.  _Thace!_ ” It was a breathy whisper. Thace barely heard it over the droning ship and their own pounding feet.

“What?” He jerked his head around.

Shiro’s eyes had clouded and his jog had slown to a walk. “Thace,” his voice sounded insistent. He was stumbling, twisting his head to look around. Searching, as though Thace were not standing right next to him.

“What?” There wasn’t time for this. Thace pushed Shiro into an alcove, relatively out of sight, before he could attract attention.

Shiro’s back thumped against the wall, squirming against Thace’s grip. Eyes still darting, blind and seemingly unhinged. Still hissing, “ _Thace,_ ” like he was trying to find him.

“ _What?_ What is it?”

“Thace… Th–  _aagh_ ” the word cracked open into a cry, as Shiro doubled over, clutching his head.

Dropping beside him, Thace swore. Because he _knew_  this would happen. He knew, but he’d dared to hope it might wait, they didn’t have time.

Haggar had been with him half the day. If the paladin was anything like past prisoners, he would be hallucinating and prying his own fingers away from his face for ages after it ended. Assuming he had that much time. Assuming they weren’t caught.

Shiro was on the floor, whining like an animal, shaking like he would rattle apart. Thace felt alarm war with revulsion when Shiro’s jittering hand crept towards his own eyes, still blank, still staring. His crooked fingers curled into claws, but Thace caught his arm before he could do any damage.

He felt the paladin’s broken wrist  _shift_ , but there wasn’t time for that either.

“Don’t do this now,” he insisted. “Get up!”

Shiro’s head jerked at the order, and his hand stopped its tugging. But he was taking too long to stand, and his eyes still weren’t  _here_.

Thace backhanded him across the face. “Move!”

Shiro’s head snapped to the side, but what was one more bruise? Trembling on his knees, he drew one shuddering breath. Throat working to swallow, his wide eyes blinked very fast. But he hefted his rifle (he hadn’t let go of it. You don’t drop your weapon, no matter what. Shiro knew) and he stood up.

They kept moving but it didn’t get better.

For all his willingness, Shiro couldn’t keep the pace. He still maintained an able eye behind them, and he held his rifle at the ready, but he was stumbling every fifth step.

They ran into their first patrol. Between the two rifles it ended quickly, and Shiro could get his bearings while Thace hid the bodies.

They were halfway there, Thace estimated, when Shiro must have felt it coming on again. Thace heard him call, took one look at the glass of his eyes, and manhandled him behind a support column as he came apart. This time, Shiro absently tried to throttle himself.

“Get up!”

Shiro shook his head to clear it. But no good. His curled fingers were grasping towards his neck, but Thace still held tight to his wrist. Shiro’s mechanized hand was pinned under Thace’s knee (yet it remained strangely silent, clutched around the rifle). Shiro’s eyes were far off, but he was trying. Sweat dripped down his face in testament. He would manage, and that was admirable, but Thace needed him to manage  _now._

Shiro shook his head again. He shook it _again_.

He stood himself up.

Lying through his teeth, Thace assured that it wasn’t far. They continued.

But it happened again. It kept happening.

Thace couldn’t keep allowing this. Not for the first time, he cursed the size of these ships, the distance left to cover. There were escape pods all over the ship, but – hardly surprising if one thought about it – none were close to the cells.

The paladin was catching his breath after it happened again and Thace made the decision. He pulled the the syringe back out – one end stimulant, the other end sedative. He needed him quiet. And they couldn’t keep stopping.

From his place on the floor, Shiro saw Thace dial it over. “N-no… no no don’t pl-” and the rest garbled into gibberish. The gladiator knew what that other side meant. He knew and he didn’t like it. Clumsy hands fumbled Thace’s, but Thace batted them aside. Looking right passed Shiro’s terrified face, Thace reached forward and jammed the needle into his neck.

Shiro stiffened with a sharp hiss. “Sorry,” he whispered, because to be burdensome was a burden all its own, and Thace was the one who’d do the carrying. Shiro squeezed his eyes shut, hand lifting to the place where Thace had just had to tranq him. Guilt blended with panic, ashamed and atavistic. “’m sorry I’m sorry –”

“Be quiet.” Thace tossed Shiro’s bad arm over his shoulder (and honestly, the skinned fingers would just have to wait, Thace was in too much a hurry to even be repulsed). He made sure his gun was secure, and that Shiro’s metal fingers were still closed on his own weapon. And they took off.

It was awkward. It was difficult. It was barely any faster than before. Thace was the taller of the two by an armslength, not a handspan. He kept a tight hold around Shiro’s waist while Shiro got heavier with every step. He didn’t drop like a stone (too shot through with panic for that). He just got heavier. And thankfully, quieter.

They rounded a corner and walked straight into a pair of sentries. But before any alarm could be raised, both were smoking heaps on the floor, Thace having shot the one on the left, and Shiro, the one of the right.

He wasn’t quite dead weight. Not just yet. Dead weight with a still-working trigger finger.

Thace dropped Shiro to the floor and quickly dragged the two sentries out of sight. It only took a dovash, but when he came back, Shiro couldn’t walk at all. He was lethargic like he’d been when Thace first entered his cell. But fair enough, at least he was quiet.

Until Thace began to lift him onto his shoulder, when the paladin gave such a shout – “Nnono- _god don’tDon’t!_ ” – that Thace stopped dead.

His would-be cargo leaned away. Face screwed up with arms braced against his ribs, breath whistling quick and sharp.

Why Earthlings had to be so fragile, Thace was sure he didn’t know. Why something that fragile decided to fight in an intergalactic war, and why he, Thace was now charged with looking after it, he was _certain_ he didn’t know. Weighing the possibility of perforated organs against that of capture, Thace decided he had the patience for neither and just threw Shiro’s hand back over his shoulder, hitching him up with an arm around his waist.

They were close. They were still moving too slowly but they were close. Get in the pod and run. That’s all they had to do.

He slapped his hand to the console at the center of the hangar, calling the pod up. He selected number 19 as he’d been told.  _“I’ll do a full inspection. No reason to suspect I’ve left anything behind at 19._ ” Still, Thace knew how suspicious it might look that Vex ran an inspection, in the middle of a Lion hunt,  _just_  before the Black Paladin (hopefully) escaped in one of those very pods.

Footsteps had Thace jerking his head up. Guards again. More of them. And not only drones. Thace ducked behind the console (meager cover but better than none) and began shooting. He’d dropped two when a bolt grazed his hand, to burn a thick chunk of meat from the base of his thumb.

He dropped back, cursing at the smell of his own flesh sizzling. More bolts whistled by his periphery, but Thace looked up in surprise to see them aimed the other way. They’d come from right next to him.

There was the paladin. Barely awake, but he’d propped his rifle up in front of him and was shooting. Accurately, if also very slowly. And if Thace had had the time, he might have laughed. Still not dead weight. Not quite yet.

Another guard dropped, and another. They were both shooting, but this many guards meant they  _had_  to go. The pod doors were open (number 19 happened to be positioned  _farthest_  from them because of course it was) and they needed to leave now.

Bodies dropped but too slowly.

The paladin had stopped moving. Either he’d been hit, or the drug was finally getting the better of him. Hoping for the latter, Thace didn’t stop to check. He picked his shots carefully and dropped the last of the guards. He could hear feet running and voices shouting. They were absolutely, completely, totally out of time. Thace finally shouldered his rifle, threaded his hands under the paladin’s back and knees, then just hauled him up and took the (too long) distance at a dead run.

He heard reinforcements enter. He heard their shouting. He felt his hood snug against his fur. His own feet slapped against the floor, Shiro’s bad arm flopping against his shoulderblade with every step as Shiro’s head lolled back and jerked in time. Thace heard his own heart, pounding in his ears. Why was it still so far? Why weren’t they safely inside yet?

White-hot pain burned through his right shoulder. His arm seized up and he would have dropped Shiro to the floor, except that he  _absolutely would not do that._  The pod doors were closing, just as they’d been designed to do after activation. Thace sprinted the last few steps and dove for the gap, tucking Shiro close to take the landing at a roll. Shots followed them inside and Thace huddled over him, lest he catch any.

Hot breath brushed by Thace’s ear, his hand cupping the back of the paladin’s head. Pulling away, Thace glimpsed Shiro’s face. He saw pallor and sickness and dull eyes, on a tiny alien who had  _no business_  being so integral to so many. Then the doors shut and they were flung against the back wall as the pod deployed.

The main viewport filled with stars. Thace left the Earthling where he lay, scrambling to the controls. He input coordinates and engaged the cloak (and thank the gods that it was there, like it was supposed to be). Vex had written the code himself. They  _should_  be invisible, and their pursuers  _should_  just assume that they’d gotten away too fast to follow. With any luck, they’d figure they were hiding in the asteroid field just off the ship’s port (it was the only thing besides empty space for a long way in any direction. And it made for an especially ideal diversion, since Thace was headed in the other direction entirely).

He watched the ship rapidly shrink behind them. When he was semi-satisfied they weren’t being followed, he commed ahead that they were on their way, before finally sliding down into the pod’s only seat. The smell of burnt fur was livid in his nostrils but he could ignore it if he focused. He disarmed his rifle, letting it drop. It took him multiple attempts, but he compressed the stinging ache in his shoulder and hand to the back of his mind.

Re-centered, he pushed himself up and headed back over to the paladin, who still hadn’t moved from where he’d left him. Rolling him onto his back, Thace confirmed it, pallor and sickness. Worse than he’d been when Thace had first seen him. Worse… worse than he should have been. Thace leaned closer, reaching for Shiro’s face. Barely opened eyes suddenly snapped wide and their owner jerked weakly, trying to crawl away.

“Stop that.” Thace held him still and tugged on one of his eyelids, looking closer. An ugly, hypoxic violet was branching across his eye, interspersed with the bright red capillaries Thace knew were considered normal. He had read up on Earthlings when first he’d learned the identities of the new Paladins of Voltron. Every imperial officer had (ironically, most of the information he’d read had been compiled from druid studies, performed on the very Earthling laid out in front of him).

With a start, he realized Haggar wasn’t simply interrogating Shiro, she was killing him. And – Thace held back a sigh – running all over the ship, flooded with whatever biochemical “panic” signals Earthlings produce, had likely just exacerbated whatever toxin’s effects that much further, that much faster. Hardly surprising that Shiro looked sicker. Maybe Thace should have just sedated him from the beginning, and damn whatever harm that incurred. The Alteans could probably have repaired it anyway. Still, hopefully they could repair this as well.

But speculation was useless, and Thace put quietus to his musings. He’d made the best of a bad situation. The end. Now, he needed to attend to the aftermath.

“Paladin?” No answer, so Thace ran a knuckle down his sternum, watching Shiro finch and shudder back to attention. “Haggar has poisoned you. When could she have done it?”

He seemed very confused. Thace tried to be patient, pressing, “When did it first happen?”

“While ago… Back when– ” His eyelids drifted down and Thace gave him a light smack. So much for patience, he’d burnt through it already. 

“What?”

“When… we got the princess.”

Thace blinked. So long ago? And he was still alive? Even if he’d been treating it since then, it already should have…

Well, no one ever accused Haggar of gentleness.

Though, why was she killing him to begin with? That wasn’t making sense, hadn’t she wanted him back? “How did she do it?”

Shiro blinked. His head gave a weak jerk towards his right side. “Uhm… Scratched me.”

Thace pushed up his tunic and looked closer. Indeed: four livid slashes, the spacing of which, Thace imagined, probably matched Haggar’s handspan. The marks glowed, and the flesh surrounding them was inflamed and discolored. Thace wondered just how much of that flesh the Alteans would have to cut away before they could heal him. Assuming of course, that they could heal him.

If they couldn’t, then what a waste this had been.

There was time enough to make Shiro drink some water. He sipped at it briefly, before his eyes lost focus and he quit responding when Thace spoke. For the time being, Thace decided not to complain. Taking advantage of his incoherence, Thace wrapped Shiro’s swollen hand and wrist as tightly as he dared (he doubted Shiro would thank him, should his hand turn necrotic and fall right off). He put a fresh dressing on the slashes and then bound his ribs. It wasn’t the easiest thing to do to someone both fragile and uncooperative, but Thace managed.

He was shivering. Thace frowned at that and pulled the cloak off (he made a point to leave his hood), to tuck it around Shiro’s shoulders. It wasn’t much. But if the Earthling managed to put himself into shock and die  _now…_

Well, Thace would probably take it as a sign of true cosmic futility, and go do something impulsive.

He hailed the Altean Castleship, just as he had days ago, when the Black Lion had been on its way. The screen flickered to life and Thace was greeted with a young angry face, crowned with white hair and a royal diadem.

Conversation did not go smoothly. Despite what Thace thought was an overabundance of recent evidence, the Altean was hesitant to trust his claims. He had to literally move aside and show her the body of her Black Paladin, before she believed Thace even had him. Of course, when she saw Shiro laid out on the floor and suspiciously still, she just assumed the worst and began to spit both vitriol and condemnation. Then her other paladins wedged themselves into the screen and they began leveling accusations as well. And  _of course_ , Shiro wasn’t suitably awake to assure them otherwise.

It wasn’t patience that made Thace sit still while they finished their diatribes. It was just exhaustion. Exhaustion and burnt out nerves. Damned paladins. Defenders of all the universe but a true nuisance on the best of days.

And then, when he told them just  _who_  would be escorting Shiro on the last leg of his journey, they erupted all over again.

On some level, Thace could understand. He would have preferred to send someone else. But Kineth had gone into hiding, keeping his head low (like Thace wished _he_ could be doing also). And Ulaz, maverick that he was, hadn’t ever responded to Thace’s message, so there could be no relying on him either. Which had left only a handful of people, exactly one of whom was stationed nearby. If the Altean princess had objections, then Thace could tell her just what to do with them.

He refrained. Somehow.

Instead, he reiterated that the man he’d chosen would be bringing her paladin, all but gift-wrapped. And that Thace would _not_ appreciate it, if they were to harm him. Wise people didn’t spit on their gift-givers.

He kept his words civil, informed the Alteans and paladins that this was just the way it was going to be, and signed off before he could say anything rude.

And then they were at the rendezvous, and Thace’s part in this prisonbreak was over.

 

***

 

Shiro slid back into awareness, eyes creaking open. Or, he thought he opened them, but everything stayed just as dark. 

Existence came in blind pieces. He hurt. A lot. There were voices. Something broad and warm against his cheek.

He was wrapped up in something. Tied up? Or like a shroud? It pinned his arms and – oh, that’s why he couldn’t see? It was wrapped around his head. Covering his face. It smelled somehow familiar. But not in a good way. Not in a bad way either. It was a smell he knew. Maybe if he weren’t so tired…

But it was pressed against his nose and mouth and  _that_  wasn’t good. That was terrifying. Or it should be, and panic tried valiantly to find a foothold in his brain. But he was tired and he  _hurt_  

He was supposed to go with someone else, wasn’t he? That was the plan. Because. Because _Thace_ , that was his name, needed to get back. If he was gone too long… If he didn’t have a… a cover. An  _alibi_ , then –

Shiro started squirming. Or he tried, but he couldn’t work his limbs. They just hurt. All of him hurt and he didn’t like the dark covering his face and he knew Thace needed to get out of here. Hand Shiro off and get moving. It was important, and Shiro wanted to tell him to just go but he couldn’t get it out, couldn’t hardly breathe with this  _thing_  pressing on his mouth –

Then it was unwrapped. Scratchy material slid from his skin, then Shiro was breathing cold fresh air. So cold it almost made him cough, but when he tried, he didn’t have the energy.

It was brighter. He saw stars. And Thace above him, talking. Or someone wearing a mask like Thace did. Talking to someone, but Shiro could’t see them.

And… and oh hey, he was slipping wasn’t he? He was… Damn. No, don’t do that, he just woke up.

It took real effort to pay attention. He hurt, everything hurt, he just wanted to sleep until it didn’t. There was someone else here, Thace was talking.  _Shouldn’t be_. He should stop talking and  _go._ Shiro could manage, Shiro would be fine, Thace should go.

Rolling his head to the left was definitely the most difficult thing in the universe. There was something –  _an arm, an elbow –_  hooked behind his head that made it tough for him to move. But  _okay, made it._  Now, eyes  _open,_  and look. They were supposed to meet someone, he had to  _look._

Shiro’s eyelids were heavier than he could ever remember them being. Focusing was hard and things were spotty at the edges. But… but he’d know those ears anywhere. Big dumb ears like a bat. And that eye.

Shiro started to laugh because just  _what_ the hell was going on? But he slipped a little further, and the laugh slid back down his throat before it could go anywhere.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe my clever comment for the end was "Shama-llama ding-dong, what a twist!"  
> If it wasn't clear, this epitomizes self-indulgent 'for fun' but wth, right?
> 
> Little thing: the concept of ‘torture, the aftermath of which prompts the victim to causally pluck his eyes out in lieu of nothing’ is not remotely an original concept. I lifted it from Gene Wolfe (Book of the New Sun, go read!) and just messed around with it a bit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Heed the tags. Sendak has some issues. And some failings. Nothing especially graphic or grotesque. Just in places, it may be a little reminiscent of rl for some people  
> 2... I wound up giving Sendak backstory. And world-building. Also, I put this chapter from his POV... so there

 

Impatient foot-tapping was the penchant and proclivity of children. And of excessively insecure adults. Still, Sendak was tempted.

Thace had first called this meeting only earlier that day. A small moon, not even a system away from Thace’s current post. He called with an assignment of  _utmost importance_. A Paladin of Voltron, to be delivered right to the door of his Altean Castleship, lightyears away.

Sendak had not exactly been enthusiastic.

He had very pointedly reminded Thace of his history with that ship. The paladins knew his face. They’d held him prisoner. If he were to hail them, they would probably open fire, capture him, and like as not, execute him.

But Thace had assured he would not be detained. And since one turn deserved another, he’d then very pointedly reminded Sendak of his debt to him (as if he would have forgotten).

Their first meeting had been on the tailend of Thace’s very last placement before he was reassigned to infiltrate Prorok’s staff.

When Thace had rescued Sendak from space, his recovery had not been a pretty one. Thace himself had somehow found the time to take a role in it. He’d spent parts of his days with Sendak as he’d relearned the use of his limbs (his pod had been cracked. Were it not so sturdy, it would have shattered outright when first ejected. It did hold, but with its structural integrity compromised, Sendak’s extremities had begun to blacken by the time he was rescued).

They’d talked about politics. About economics and prosperity and freedom and justice. Those things people talk about when bored. Thace had spoken of Emperor Zarkon. About the drain he imposed upon the universe. About his madness. About Sendak’s prospects, should he ever attempt return to Zarkon’s fold.

They’d talked quite a lot.

And when Sendak was recovered – two arms, two legs, and the strength to actually use them – he’d signed on with Thace without a backward glance.

(That actually wasn’t entirely true. But it’s how he told it.)

Now he traveled. A wide swath of the space fell under his purview. Within it, he watched, he listened, he monitored. Occasionally, he assassinated.

And now, it would seem that occasionally he  _delivered_  as well. Deliveries that took the form of the one last hope, for all peoples in the universe.

Thace had insisted that it couldn’t be anyone else besides Sendak.

_“There aren’t many of us. You’re the only one trustworthy, who is close by, anonymous, and possessed of warp jump capabilities. I would not have asked you otherwise.”_

Sendak snorted. He was chosen for being close by. Wasn’t that what ran him afoul of the paladins in the first place? He’d been close by to Arus, so he was the one called.

Still, the Lions had to be united. This was nonnegotiable and, to Thace, well worth any amount of effort. And so, it was worth it to Sendak also. He wasn’t unreasonable and he wasn’t a coward. He had not joined Thace’s society of  _Marmorra_  (not that they likely would have permitted him to attempt the trials) but he’d made an oath of his own.

So, here he stood, waiting.

Thace’s choice for the rendezvous – atop a damned mesa for whatever reason – was not the most well-hidden of places. He may not have known this moon was populated.

Sendak’s ship was not as small and unobtrusive as Thace’s pod, so he’d had to stow it some distance away and had trekked the distance on foot. Thace had said the paladin might not be able to walk, but Earthlings were tiny. Sendak didn’t foresee any trouble carrying one.

He wasn’t sure how happy the paladin would be about it. But such was life. He wasn’t sure how happy  _he_  was with this whole situation, himself.

True, the paladins were the only hope Sendak could see, but there was little love between he and they. He’d invaded their home, captured and injured two of their number, and tried to steal their Lions. They’d taken his arm, held him prisoner, left him to die in space. And true, Sendak still breathed but they’d unmade his entire life. He’d been declared dead by the empire. Were he to return, he’d be arrested for his failure. Because of them, he was a fugitive. Because of them, he would be very much worse off right now, had he been found by _anyone_  besides Thace and his people.

Very, very,  _very_  little love to be lost between Sendak and the Paladins of Voltron.

As he folded his arms, his eye caught the glow of his left. That sneaky little green one had sliced right through the old piece. Thace hadn’t had the resources to re-outfit him with anything so powerful as it had been. His current prosthesis was outdated. Identical to his right arm, in virtually every way, save for the vague glow it emitted and the slightly enhanced strength it conferred. It had plasma enhancements but nothing more. No range capabilities, no _real_  weapons. Nothing like his old one.

Still, during his recovery, Sendak had endured life with only one hand. He was not about to complain over having two again.

Damned paladins, for doing this to him. Damned Zarkon, whose madness Sendak had been forced to confront. Damned Thace, who needed the help. Damned universe, for putting Sendak in the wrong place at the wrong time,  _again._

Before his thoughts could stray any closer to melodrama, Sendak heard engines overhead. Sure enough, a standard pod approached. It swung round and touched down right in front of him.

Thace poked his head out. He wore a hood but Sendak knew him. Thace’s voice came out wry, “Given the lackadaisical manner you’re standing in, I _assume_ you weren’t followed by anyone?”

The snort was involuntary. “No one.”

“No one knows you’re here?”

“ _No one_.”

Thace nodded and disappeared back into the pod.

Sendak pulled in a deep breath and steeled himself. Yes, he really was going to have to do this. No complaining.

When Thace stepped back out, he carried a wrapped bundle in his arms. The face was covered so it could have been any of them. Small, like all Earthlings. Not small enough to be the green one though.

Thace brought it forward. “Interrogated. First, in the traditional way, then under Haggar.” Sendak carefully didn’t flinch. “Contusions. Several. And he had some trouble breathing. Possibly damaged ribs, keep an eye on them. Keep him awake if you can. Head trauma. Broken fingers and wrist, missing much of the skin. Lacerations on his right side, inflicted some time ago and poisoned, also courtesy of Haggar.”

As if remembering himself, Thace shifted his arm and caught the edge of the cloth, to pull it back from the paladin’s face.

Oh.

That one.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. One in five odds, after all.

He looked different. Disappointingly so. The Earthling who had survived Galra custody, escaped and brought Voltron to bear, now looked  _frail._  Inescapably frail. Battered (not unlike Sendak himself had been battered, though he didn’t think about that). As small and slight as one of the juveniles Sendak might have growled at and tossed back into line.

He had liked this one. In a way. At least until he and his compatriots had crushed everything Sendak had ever built, and ground his entire life into the dust. Even for that he might have admired them. Somewhere _very_  deep down.

Then they dumped him into space to die.

And here he was now. Sendak shook his head. Strange times he lived in.

“He had a fit as we were leaving. Multiple actually, but he stopped before it became severe. I’m confident the Alteans can reverse it. Again, keep him awake.” Sendak glanced down in surprise. Indeed, the eyes  _were_  slit open just a fraction, though his face remained slack, unmoving. Sendak wasn’t sure if the Earthling truly saw him, because he didn’t raise any protest.

“I had to sedate him so it might not be the easiest thing.” Oh. Joy. Not, Sendak mused, that anything ever was. “I’ve contacted the Altean Castleship. Told them that the people who hand-delivered their Lion are now coming with its paladin –”

“The Lion?”

Thace smirked, “That’s right, you’ve been out of touch. Yes, the Lion and the paladin were caught and held for a time. The Alteans were in no position to retrieve them. Stealing the Lion was… difficult.” Thace frowned when Sendak let out a snort. But the droll understatement deserved to be laughed at.

“The Alteans are now waiting, rather impatiently, for their paladin. Had they known his location, they’d have probably gone after him themselves” –  _which would have ended disastrously,_ if their history was any indicator. “They’re expecting you, and I am assured that they will cooperate. But,” Thace sobered, “if you’re caught in the meantime, I can’t offer you any assistance.” No surprise there. Sendak had known he would be alone.

Not terribly long ago, Sendak had happily wondered about harvesting Earth, to see if all of her people could serve the arena as capably as Champion did. And now, here he was, putting his own skin very much on the line, right alongside ( _for the sake of_ ) one of her sons, trying to prevent that very manner of thing.

Strange times.

Still, Sendak had been weaned on dangers like these, and was no stranger to the pressures.

With no further ado, Thace handed the Earthling over; perfunctory, like he would a ration crate. A very _light_  ration crate – supporting him took less effort than it had once taken to heft the weight of Sendak’s own left arm.  _Frail_ had been dead on the mark. Bruises and dark spindling lines, crisscrossing pale skin.

Looking closer at the paladin confirmed it. The scar, the face. It was surreal, but yes, this was the one. And yes, Sendak had liked him. The anger and the vigor, the same as he’d displayed when he was lining Sendak’s pockets at the ring. Back during the days when Sendak had had successes to laugh over, and drink over. Days for impulsive, high-color wagers that had earned him the jeering of his (braver) crew, until Champion turned around and  _won._

Long-gone better days.

“Shiro,” Hands falling away, Thace's voice was curt. Sendak filed that away – had he heard the name before? No matter –  _Shiro_  was the name of the Black Paladin. Now he knew.

Shiro’s eyes slid open a little wider. Laboriously, his head rolled, to look at Thace.

“This is where we part ways. Sendak–” Shiro blinked but he didn’t make a sound, “–will take you safely on, to the Altean Castleship. You’ll be back with your people, imminently.” Thace paused. Them he deliberately took his hood off, giving Shiro an unobstructed view of his face. “Your debt is owed to the Blade of Marmorra.”

“Th-… Thank you.” Shiro’s voice didn’t sound like what Sendak remembered. “For getting me out… S-sorry I couldn’t–”

“Don’t think on that.” Thace surprised Sendak, when he tipped his head forward and, with frank sincerity, offered the old salute, “Vrepit sa, Paladin.”

Shiro surprised him even more by shaking some of the haze off, blinking his eyes open all the way. “Godspeed, Thace,” spoken clearly, with crooked mouth twitching upward at the corner. Sendak noted it with a touch of surprise.

Thace absorbed the unfamiliar words, nodding once. Sendak’s arms being occupied, Thace settled for simply reaching over and placing a brief hand at his neck, squeezing against his nape. 

Then Thace stepped back and, dawning his hood, he returned to the pod and was gone.

Not much later, he abandoned the pod (amidst the very same asteroid field he’d noted). He deleted the program for the cloak, donned a suit and void-hopped, until he stood at the edge of open space. As close as he could get back to the ship, which to him, still seemed much too far away.

He commed Vex and, with his help, mapped out and very carefully (very, very, very carefully) lined up a jump of frankly obscene distance.

But Vex was one of the smartest people Thace knew and, with few microadjustments he guided him safely in. Once back onboard, he gave Thace a bit of time to clean up and tend to his shoulder and gather his wits. Then, refreshed (or so he told himself), Thace reappeared from the  _unspeakably important_  transmissions he’d been entrenched in all this time (which, he had; Vex could prove it) and began the search for the missing paladin scum.

 

***

 

They watched the pod lift off. Then slowly, as though feeling the cost of every movement, Shiro tilted his head back, to stare in the general direction of Sendak’s face.

“So. Does he–” Shiro’s voice gave, and he swallowed twice to try to get it back, “–know we’ve met?”

Sendak smirked. “The basics, but apparently not the details.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or he might have thought twice before bringing you to me.”

And with that, he dumped Shiro on the ground.

“Can you walk at all?” he asked mildly. Was that petty? Yes, it was. Did they have time to spare for pettiness? Debatable. But Sendak hadn’t had reason to smile in a long time.

Shiro bounced on stone. His yelp rose sharply, then ended in a groan as the paladin sprang into a tight ball, hands guarding his middle. With his face pressed against the rock, he breathed between his teeth. Sendak’s ears twitched at the low keening that began, then abruptly cut off, its owner unwilling to give it credence. He gave a chuckle at that, and watched the Earthling jerk instinctively, trying to curl up tighter at the sound.

This was the creature who had destroyed Sendak’s life and livelihood. Who had made him _defenseless,_  who had made him  _helpless,_ then shot him into space, to die slow. And yes, Sendak would get him back to his people, because yes, Voltron was imperative.

But he gave himself just a handful of ticks. It was agreeably cathartic.

Yet, the Black Paladin surprised him. Sendak had no sooner begun to reach down for him again, than Shiro rolled to his knees. He worked his metal hand free of the cloak he wore and pressed a fist against the ground, levering his head and shoulders up. Then one knee, then the other.

Then, incredibly enough, he was on his feet, both arms braced across his abdomen, glaring at Sendak like he wished he could light him on fire. Which might have carried a bit more weight, were Shiro’s eyes actually able to focus on him. As things stood, Sendak anticipated any potential combustion would be taking place somewhere over his left shoulder.

Still, Sendak shook his head and chuckled again, remarkable little alien. But then, Champion always had found his feet quickly.

Shiro lasted approximately ten steps before he swayed.

Amusing as that was, Sendak had been keeping a count in the back of his head. Five dovashes they could spare, but five dovashes had since past. When Shiro stumbled and would have fallen, Sendak caught him by the shoulder and just plucked him back up off the ground. Shiro fought for a couple ticks but he was too weak to do much, and the wrap had tangled over his limbs again. His eyes rolled up towards Sendak’s, wide and apprehensive.

“Calm down. In fact, we  _are_  bound for your Castleship, just as Thace said.” Sendak schooled his features into an admonishing frown, “You think he would lie to you?”

And with that, he started walking.

Before too long, Shiro’s breathing slowed down. His gaze settled until his eyes went dull, lingering at half-mast while his head rocked back and forth with Sendak’s every step. He had literally been delivered right into Sendak’s hands. Left without any weapon besides his own arm, and probably too drained to even lift it.

Sendak’s dutiful frown was finally ready to stop trying to turn into a smirk. Almost. “If you were so frightened, you should have spoken before.”

Blinking, Shiro set his vague stare at something beyond Sendak’s head. “Wasn’t… wasn’t sure if he’d…”

“After the trouble he went to for your sake?” Sendak wondered, was the Earthling ungrateful or just stupid?

Shiro shook his head, weakly. “He’s… had to drag me around.” His eyes narrowed, trying to focus. “And they… shot him, when–” Of its own volition, Sendak’s heart rate doubled, and his head twisted up towards the direction where he’d last seen the pod disappear. Thace had looked fine. He’d smelled more than a little singed but there was no blood. Only burns. He was _fine./em > Had he been hiding something?_

__

Before Sendak could demand more, Shiro was already speaking, “Think… he’s okay. But-” As Sendak subtly let his breath out, Shiro looked to him and said simply, “He’s tired. You’re not.”

__

Shiro, Sendak realized, knew quite a lot, for knowing so little. He was right – if, for whatever reason, it had somehow come to blows between Thace and Sendak, Thace would not have emerged the better. So, Shiro kept quiet. He hadn’t let Thace know their history, and so, had released Thace from the obligation of protecting him.

__

Some part of Sendak was gratified to hear Thace’s little beneficiary would worry for his welfare. Privately, he rather thought Thace needed all the help he could get.

__

Shiro’s eyes slid away from Sendak again. “So,” his voice was barely there, “didn’t want to say.”

__

“He’s alright, though? You said you think he is?”

__

Shiro blinked up at him, as though it confused him that Sendak would ask (Sendak already regretted saying anything so revealing), but then he nodded slowly.

__

Good. Sendak caught Shiro’s bleary eyes as well as he could, speaking very clearly, “I owe Thace more than I’ve ever owed anyone. More than the likes of you understand. I would not attack him for anything.”

__

“Seems to…” If it always took the paladin this long to spit out a few words, Sendak’s patience would likely be more tested than he’d thought, “… trust you.”

__

“He does. It’s only for his sake that I’m doing this.”

__

That was apparently satisfactory. Or Shiro was just too tired to question. Either way, he went quiet thereafter. Sendak navigated over rocks and down inclines, and the only noise Shiro made was to grunt or wince, whenever he was jolted back and forth. Then that trailed off as well.

__

It was just crossing Sendak’s mind that he was  _supposed_  to be keeping Shiro awake, when Shiro obliged all on his own. He began to fidget. And did not abate when Sendak barked at him to hold still.

__

“Thace? …  Th-… … S-Sendak?”

__

“What?” Something wasn’t right, here.

__

What happened next, Sendak had not been expecting. Not in the slightest. 

__

Shiro tugged and kept tugging. Twisting, until he’d worked his arms loose. “Sendak. Sendak…” His eyes were frantic. Sendak stopped walking, before Shiro could squirm right out of his hold.

__

“Sendak”

__

_“What?”_

__

“S-Sen-…” Then Shiro breathed in but not out. His eyes stared up, sightless. Ominously slow, his head tilted its way back in a versive motion. Back, back, and _too far back._

__

In a flash, Sendak had him on the ground, and Shiro arched with a scream. His limbs twitched and his head jerked, while both trembling hands made their way up towards his face. Sendak saw metal fingers curl towards Shiro’s eyes, and grabbed them back. Shiro’s left hand had been wrapped too tightly to grab at anything, but he forced it against his open eye, hard enough to damage. The rest of him shook, hand pawing at his face as though trying to scrub at something. Sendak could smell blood in the air and he saw the clean wrap begin to darken. Then, as its druid-born twin struggled in Sendak’s grip, Shiro’s bound hand skittered down to crush his own throat.

__

Sendak knocked it away. He grabbed both of Shiro’s wrists and held them with his left hand. With his other, he reached to Shiro’s head, still twisted back and jerking rhythmically against the rocky ground. He held it down, kept it as still as possible. He leaned a knee on Shiro’s hip, to pin him.

__

Then he waited.

__

The motions came just as naturally as they ever had.

__

“Keep calm.”

__

He called for Shiro to quiet, but Shiro wasn’t listening. His legs kicked and his body heaved, but he was still just a tiny Earthling (a very sick, tiny Earthling) and Sendak easily held him in place.

__

Sendak had seen seizures before, of multiple sorts. Even the smallest family of the youngest lineage had at least that one – one who suffered the fits – and Sendak’s had been no exception. It had been his youngest half-brother. Sendak’s own nest-match.

__

Koltav, he’d been called. Many times growing up, Sendak had hated his luck. Out of every cousin, niece, nephew, sibling, half-sibling it could have been – out of  _all_  the subsequent generation – in the end it was for Sendak, to help raise the family’s one shaking embarrassment, and  _try_  to make something worthwhile of him.

__

_I’m sorry_

__

_Thank you I’m sorry_

__

He held the paladin  _– keep calm –_ and Sendak found himself somewhere else.

__

Pinning down someone else, who looked different, sounded different. But who was also smaller and slighter. Who also shook and had to be held still. Someone else who was broken, someone else who Sendak was  _not permitted_  to abandon.

__

_No_

__

_You can leave_

__

_I’m sorry_

__

Sendak shook his brother’s voice away because that was decades ago and he was no longer that person. He wasn’t there anymore. Koltav was long-dead, Sendak _wasn’t_  there any longer.

__

But despite his efforts, he wasn’t all here, either. Shiro tugged with all the strength he had, straining towards his own eyes, and Sendak felt his own mind dig at things better left alone.

__

Because yes, Sendak  _did_ know all about fits and their etiologies and, by his estimate, this was not one. Similar certainly, but only similar. Seizures involved paroxysms and he saw plenty of that (Shiro’s entire frame was shaking). But they certainly _didn’t_  involve trying to pluck one’s eyes out. Trying to collapse one’s own airway.

__

No, that had  _“Haggar”_  written all over it. That was druid work.

__

Though he hated to think of it, Sendak flashed back to when he’d first had his prosthesis. He remembered waking up after his operation, tied down. The feeling had come and gone in waves.

__

He had this new arm and it seemed unutterably important that Sendak  _use_ it. And his own throat was both the closest and the best. He _had_  to use it. Use it on his throat, on his face. Because it was best. It was  _best._

__

If asked why, he was certain he could have given a very good, very cogent explanation for this. Still, he remained tied down, and instructed to remember that he was  _not_ to employ either of his hands in any such way. That it was  _not_  an appropriate use of his prosthesis. But if ever he lost track, he’d come back to himself with both his arms tugging against their restraints.

__

At one point, he’d gotten his flesh hand loose (later, the initiates on duty would be punished for taking too little care in tying it down; for dismissing it, in favor of worrying about the new one). The attending druids came running, but by the time they arrived, Sendak was holding his own eyeball in his hand, smiling through blood and, for the time being, satisfied.

__

Sendak shook the hideous memory away. It lingered like shadows, so he shook his head harder. He had enough to focus on.

__

Poison. Thace had said Shiro had been poisoned. And he’d said Haggar had been to visit him. He’d said Shiro had had fits (though it couldn’t have been as severe as this or they never would have made it off the ship). That was all well and good to know, but it meant that there was nothing Sendak could do but to wait for it to end.

__

And watch for when it happened again.

__

Shiro kicked and shook for less than a hundred-count. As it quieted, Sendak saw his doll eyes start blinking again, beginning to dart about. He seemed confused to see Sendak’s face above him, and to notice the hand still resting on his head. Each ragged breath he took served to remind that thrashing about like a wild thing probably hadn’t benefited his ribs at all. Flicking an ear forward, Sendak could make out that one lung did not sound like the other. It might have at least partially collapsed already. But as Sendak understood it, that was one of the (pathetically few) things a young, fit Earthling could safely endure for a time.

__

“Whr-…?  Wh-…?” The disorientation wasn’t surprising. The slurring wasn’t either.

__

Sendak waited for Shiro’s complete attention before carefully speaking. For a tick, he remembered again, speaking in a similar way, very long ago,

__

“You’ve had a fit. Do you recall?”

__

_No_

__

Shiro just looked confused.

__

“You were twitching and jerking around, and I had to keep you from further damaging yourself. Do you understand me?”

__

No answer.

__

_Yes_

__

_Why haven’t you left?_

__

“Paladin, do you understand what I’ve just said to you?”

__

Shiro blinked twice, then carefully nodded. 

__

“If I release your arms, are you going to try to throttle yourself?”

__

That earned a look of surprise. Shiro quickly shook his head.

__

“Are you going to grab at your eyes?”

__

Another head shake.

__

_You can leave_

__

_Why haven’t you left yet?_

__

 

__

Watchful and wary, Sendak let go. Shiro was still for a tick.

__

And then slowly, ever-so-slowly, his hands began to drift up. Sendak was about to grab for him again, when Shiro seemed to realize what was happening, and his whole body froze.

__

Unguarded horror lit up his face. The paladin gasped at just what had become of him, while Sendak watched in silence. He withdrew the last of his weight, and let Shiro lie on the rocks to try to collect himself. But even with time, his breathing did not fully calm. And when Sendak spoke, Shiro’s head jerked up, startled.

__

“It is not permanent.”

__

_They won’t stop will they_

__

_Thank you thank you why haven’t you left_

__

 

__

_I’m not_ going _to leave_

__

He needed to stop that, he wasn’t there. Sendak clenched his teeth, putting it out of his mind so that it  _stayed_ out. “All of this is fleeting,” he said. “You may not remember, but this would have happened to you before, when you first received your arm.” Shiro’s right fist clenched tight. “The druids’ works are arcane. They give but they also take.” Many would claim that they took too much. Listening to this, Shiro looked terrified.

__

“But you recovered. It ended. Probably, it’s only happening again because of your time with Haggar. She brings this out in many prisoners she sees.”

__

Shiro’s face crumpled at the mention of Haggar. He turned his head away from Sendak, eyes going up to the stars.

__

Sendak rather hoped he wouldn’t start weeping. This was unpleasant enough.

__

He did refrain, but Sendak confirmed again, “It will end in a few standard cycles. The fits will cease and your hands will obey only you.”

__

Shiro said nothing, but just kept staring up.

__

Sendak leaned closer to him, “It _will_ stop. Do you believe me?” What reason had Shiro to do that? Sendak was surely the last person Shiro wanted close by right then. Likely, he was wishing for his other paladins.

__

Sendak rather agreed with the sentiment, he also wished he were elsewhere. 

__

But Shiro turned toward him, and Sendak _wasn’t_  supposed to be remembering such things, but he still couldn’t fail to recognize the face. The look that said, _Don’t be lying._ If Sendak was lying to him about this, Shiro would crack right down the middle.

__

Sendak saw that, and it made him uneasy. To be confronted thus brought on the same familiar nausea it always had. “Do you believe what I’ve said?”

__

Swallowing, Shiro’s voice was brittle. “Yes, I do.” 

__

“Then come on. The sooner you’re with your people, the sooner this ends.”

__

Shiro closed his eyes and sighed. Twice. “Okay.” With the fit over, he was crashing hard. Sendak offered the cloak again, but Shiro didn’t want it anymore. It was much too hot (though that might change, once he fully calmed down). And as frightened as Shiro doubtless was of his own hands, it wasn’t hard to guess how it might be worse to be wrapped up again.

__

Shiro wasted a handful of ticks trying to get to his feet. He didn’t manage, but the sight wasn’t as amusing as it had been before.

__

Sendak bade himself remember that none of this changed anything. Shiro was no kith or kin of his. Enduring similar horrors meant nothing; they were not the only two to have ever seen the druids. That Shiro reminded him of  _far_ far too many things better left forgotten – it was nothing. It was nothing at all. 

__

The final time Shiro tried to stand, tottering and falling back in the dirt, Sendak had suitably schooled his thoughts, so that his only sanctioned reaction was to sneer and think it pathetic.

__

There was no resistance when Sendak tugged him up. He’d finally passed out, and Sendak wondered if he would stay that way. He was ill, he’d been drugged. He was likely beyond exhausted.

__

But fear was a powerful motivator. With Sendak close by, and Haggar still inside his head, it was probably too much to ask that Shiro would keep quiet until they reached the Castleship. Truthfully, it was probably too much to ask that he’d even keep still until they reached  _Sendak’s_  ship, farther down the mountain. Thace said to keep Shiro awake, but Sendak had grown rather less keen on that notion, and he made a point to walk faster.

__

Yes, this moon was populated. Yes, it would have been foolish to leave something as big and obvious as his own ship out in the open. Still, he wished it were closer. He envied Thace that tiny pod.

__

Sendak leapt down a ledge, landing hard. Shiro’s head flopped back, exposing the long line of his throat to starlight.

__

Sendak bared his teeth at him. And at Thace, whose fault all this was. But Thace was far off and Shiro’s eyes weren’t open, so neither noticed him.

__

 

__

 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sendak = Character flaws and impotent rage.  
> Sendak on the show = Just a dude, doing his job... his job, which involved invading the castle, terrorizing kids, making a teenager listen while her friend was screaming, etc., etc.  
> Just a dude. With layers (many of those layers are not so good).
> 
> Important information, just in case *points above* That is not a thing in human medicine. That is not a panic attack, that is not a seizure. 99.9999999999% of you guys obviously don't need to be told this, so this is for the 0.000000-et cetera percent: IF in your real lives, you ever witness ppl having either of those things, do not (for fuck's sake and the love of God) do anything so barbaric as holding them down. Obviously, it's not appropriate for panic attacks, but it's not the right thing for seizures either.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost home  
> Sendak is done with this nonsense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit, this one's a bit weird. We're going ALL over the place, running the gamut from humor to absurdism to revulsion to Deep-Seated Issues to more absurdism, all crammed into the shortest chapter so far  
> (I do what I want!!!!!!!!)

  
 

Was his neck long for the rest of his body? It seemed so to Sendak. Beneath the bright stars, the underside of Shiro’s jaw was pale enough to glow. Evolutionarily, that seemed like a flaw. Long, pale, attention-catching, and easy to grab and to twist. He supposed it was one more addition to the long list of Earthling failings.

Why was he even still looking at it?

Sendak picked his way along the edge of a copse of gnarled trees, growing up, over, around, and into the rocky side of the mountain. The starlight shone on their silver bark, but Sendak didn’t much notice. He wasn’t looking at them.

And still wasn’t, when a series of small, choked noises announced that Shiro was awake again. Or whatever passed for it. Muscle corded on his neck and he coughed quietly. Then did so again. Sendak pricked an ear, then pulled a sneer onto his face when he realized Shiro was just trying to lift his head. Having fallen so far back, it kept him from clearing whatever must have caught in his throat. He was trying to raise it back up again.

And couldn’t. Suspended on that long, stupid neck, he couldn’t even lift the weight of his own head. Ridiculous. Pathetic. Irredeemably, _impermissibly_ pathetic, just one more reason–

Sendak barely ducked in time to avoid bashing his head on a low-hanging tree branch. The sudden overcorrection nearly overbalanced him.

Feet scrambling before they found purchase, he quickly checked to make sure Shiro hadn’t seen that. And then berated himself for caring. Shaking himself, he walked on, dignity smarting and still looking downwards.

His present burden was a creature who had won over the Black Lion. Who was tasked with the defense of the universe, as it were. Ergo, it was not permissible for Sendak to dump him on the ground and leave him. He knew these things, but right then they did not seem so believable. Not with the paladin in question sputtering quietly while his head would begin to lift, only to fall back again. Too weak to just facilitate his own breathing and _far_  too weak for this war.

Caught up again in his comfortably affirming cycle of contempt, Sendak stepped on a loose rock and nearly took a spill the rest of the way down the hillside. He caught himself, landing hard enough for Shiro’s head to bounce up and down.

The rock rolled merrily down the incline and Sendak let loose with an  _explosive_ torrent of cursing, because he swore the cheeky thing was  _laughing_ at him.

Temper was a vice he’d struggled with in the past. Sometimes he allowed himself to rile. The Emperor, of all people, had used to–

The Emperor, who for just a single tick, he caught himself wishing for.

The entirety of the universe was laughing at him, wasn’t it?

_Stop. Take a breath._

He caught his balance, he did catch his breath.

He caught up his circular logic and held it still. To refocus himself, that was all he needed.

Just shut his eyes a tick and  _hold still._

Obliging (or just oblivious), Shiro waited, wheezing quietly with his head tipped upside down.

When his thoughts wound back down into order, Sendak reopened his eyes and considered. Then knelt, to free his own left arm, slipping a hand under Shiro’s head. He noticed that he probably could have crushed it, if he’d wanted. Even without augmentation, his hand was that much larger. With Shiro resettled and Sendak (hopefully) re-centered, they continued downward, steps now slightly more sedate, slightly more careful.

Shiro breathed easier with his throat cast back into shadow. Sendak wished this were done with. It was only another few steps before he noticed Shiro watching him. 

Sendak sniffed, glancing sharply away, “What kind of creature can’t pick its own head up?”

“Hmm?” Shiro blinked sluggishly before it clicked for him. “Oh. Yeah.” Now that Sendak could see his face again, the bruises seemed darker. Or perhaps, he’d grown paler. And the discoloration of his eyes – Sendak  _thought_ the vessels weren’t supposed to be so dark – was becoming more and more apparent. “Thanks,” Shiro murmured, slow-blinking again.

“Whatever for? It must be misery to endure such weakness as your species does.”

“… Yeah.”

That was rather easier than Sendak had expected. But the hazy look on Shiro’s face hadn’t gone anywhere, and Sendak wasn’t convinced that Shiro knew what all was happening.

“Brittle,” came a whisper, to no one in particular. Sendak waited, but that was all Shiro said on it.

Maybe Sendak hadn’t done so well a job of re-centering himself, because  _brittle_  wedged into his mind, as something to be prodded and picked at. “I recall, you tried to kill me.”

He waited. Painstakingly, Shiro tilted his head up. In place of apprehension, his face just showed resignation and a semi-vacant sort of simplicity. And, after a tick or so, “I did.”

The quiet acknowledgment made it both better and worse. “Was it you, in fact? I just heard a voice like yours. Then I was in space.”

Infinitesimally, Shiro’s expression fell. “Just me.” The admission seemed to hurt.

Sendak closed his mouth on the snarl that wanted out. This was nothing he hadn’t already figured for himself. Sendak attacked him and his own, and Shiro had taken up vendetta. Sendak stole from him. Tortured him, for only the purpose than to trap his people. In return, Shiro imprisoned him, rendered him helpless, then tried to murder him. Sendak understood vengefulness. This was _nothing_ unexpected.

“I’m sorry.”

But that was. Sendak’s ears twitched around. That snarl tried to get out again.

“Was… a bad call.”

“What?”

“Just–” Shiro started to trail off, blinking.

Sendak shook him so hard, his teeth rattled together. Shiro’s eyes flew open, pain twisted his face. Suddenly, Sendak wanted him awake a while longer.

“You apologize for me,” Sendak probed, his voice even, “Why? You do not apologize for the crew onboard my ship.”

Reflexively, Shiro flinched. But his face hardened and just for that instant, he and Sendak understood each other. Champion didn’t apologize for fighting for his life. Sendak didn’t apologize for invading the Altean Castle. Shiro didn’t apologize for the crew  _– Sendak’s crew,_ not that that mattered - of a ship that had attacked him. He didn’t apologize for harvesting his prisoner’s thoughts.

Why should anyone apologize for the way things have to be? 

And  _why_ then would Shiro apologize for what came after?

“You were a prisoner. Weren’t even awake.” _Defenseless_ , which Sendak hated to think about.

“Don’t offer excuses for killing an enemy.” What a stupid lesson to have to teach. “If I’d been smarter, I would have killed you when first I had the chance.”

“Not like that.” Shiro’s voice was firm, at least for the way his eyes were already drifting shut. “Shouldn’t have. Even if–”

“If you say you shouldn’t, then tell me why you did.” The claws on Sendak’s hand were ripping the shoulder of Shiro’s tunic. Shiro didn’t seem to notice.

He raised his eyes. Staring up at the sky, his pallid face twisted into something desperate. And despairing. All at once, such hopelessness that Sendak might have thought them besieged from every side by the worst of enemies. It appeared for just an instant, shocking in its suddenness, and then it vanished. And Shiro’s face held only self-recrimination, layered over the same bone-deep exhaustion as before, “I thought… I heard you.”

Sendak remembered how Shiro had pleaded with an empty room.

“Was just me. You… couldn’t–”

 _– do anything._ No, and wasn’t that the problem? Wasn’t that what enraged Sendak most of all? He knocked his shoulder against a tree as they passed, jostling Shiro again. Either to shut him up, or to keep him talking, Sendak couldn’t say which. Or maybe it was just to make him hurt.

“I let it scare me.” But watching Shiro’s face contort didn’t make Sendak feel any better. “I tried to kill you –” neither did hearing the strain in his voice, “– just because it scared me.”

Shiro let his eyes close, and didn’t open them back up. His shame  _should_  have been gratifying, when he forced those last words out. It should have.

Sendak noticed the blood at Shiro’s right shoulder, where he was gripping too tight.

His temper again.

He remembered his time onboard the Altean Castleship. Pieces of it, at least. He remembered the questioning. The invasive way his surface thoughts were plucked from his mind like loose threads from a weave. If Sendak were a man more prone to introspection, he might look back and call it a violation. But he would firmly maintain that he was not. He was practical. He would rather like to have that technology himself (it would be a boon to his current business of intelligence-gathering and subterfuge). He was not bothered. He was not at all.

Still.

He remembered how his interrogation ended. How the Earthling’s voice hitched and changed. Though Sendak had been frozen in the pod, he remembered every single stuttering protest, flung against the empty, echoing room.

Almost as if Shiro could hear what Sendak had been thinking of him.

Had he been able, he would have smiled, listening to his captor’s fear climb out of control. Laughed, to hear his interrogator reduced to whimpering. Denials that grew steadily louder and more desperate. Sendak heard the paladin shout in defiance, he felt the pod shake with some sudden impact. There was a rushing, and then there was quiet.

_I let it scare me._

Profound quiet.

And, in some distant way, the passage of time.

And then gasping and bright pain. And Thace, looking down from somewhere above him.

He’d been dumped into space because he’d been frightening. Immobilized, rendered damnably helpless, yet he had been more frightening than Shiro’s tiny mind could tolerate.

But perhaps that only figured; weak creatures were  _always_  frightened. Sendak knew. They were  _only_ ever frightened, all the time,  _all_  their lives. He’d grown up observing it firsthand – in someone who shook and who cried, though Sendak  _tried_ to make him stronger – he’d learned early on to hold it in contempt.

It was… draining, to think he would have been killed over something so base. Murdered by a child-sized alien, who couldn’t hold his own head up and honestly,  _what kind of species can’t even–_

Sendak deliberately pried his clawed fingers from Shiro’s shoulder. And tried not to breathe too deeply through his nose. He could have done worse, so he didn’t bother feeling too guilty. After all, he could have just strangled Shiro, like he’d been (was still) initially considering.

Why tell him this? That there was no vendetta, no deliberate exacting of vengeance. Just fear. Why did Shiro humble himself? Why claim culpability, when Sendak would have been just as satisfied to go on thinking it had been an exchange? Damage for damage, retribution for injury.

Why claim it as Shiro’s own failing?

Sendak would have asked that very question. Only, Shiro hadn’t reopened his eyes. Having offered that small, deceptively heavy handful of words, he was out again. How like him – waking when Sendak would rather he just stayed quiet, only to nod back off and leave Sendak to deal with  _this_  by himself.

 _‘How like him’_? What was that about? Sendak didn’t know him. 

But he’d fought him. Attacked him, damaged him. Been his prisoner. Nearly been killed by him. Had held him down so he didn’t claw his eyes out.

Sendak stepped carefully over a twisted root. Maybe he did know him. Not that that meant anything, nor should it. But maybe Sendak did know him. That much, he might have to admit.

“You embarrassed me,” he muttered.

When first they clashed, during Sendak’s infiltration. Shiro had fought him. And yes, had embarrassed him (in front of Haxus no less, the last remaining member of Sendak’s crew).

He’d had use of a prosthesis (but so had Sendak). Everything else, every move he’d made, had been all his own. And in truth, he’d moved like an oiled eel. Sendak was lucky enough to lay hands on him early. But then he was  _foolish_  enough to let go, and never managed to catch hold of him again. He’d underestimated him, and how Sendak loathed himself for it. Slippery and lightning-quick, the Earthling had comported himself more than well. And with his prosthesis, he’d been able to  _hit_  almost as hard as Sendak had.

He hadn’t had any trouble holding his head up then.

He hadn’t been any coward.

Small as he was, he’d fought like something vicious (just as he’d  _always_  fought like something vicious). Sendak had liked that about him.

His thoughts were circling again, weren’t they? _Coward, not a coward. Pathetic, vicious. Contemptible, but he’d liked him. No one of his, but he reminded him of much too much –_ and Sendak had never had any particular gift for insight anyway. Put the thoughts away, they would keep for some other time.

He leapt down from a ledge, landing hard. The impact jarred Shiro’s right arm out of his hold and it slid down to point towards the ground. But his face never flickered. Sendak twitched a cautious ear forward to check closer, but his lungs sounded the same as they had earlier. Insofar as they didn’t sound alike and one seemed to be underperforming. Sendak wasn’t an expert on Earthlings, but that seemed less concerning than a few other things.

Chief among them was that this particular Earthling had begun to sweat some time ago. And it had been getting progressively worse (Sendak would likely have a damp stripe across his front from holding him, and wasn’t that a pleasant thought?) He was shaking too. Warm and shivering at the same time didn’t make much sense to Sendak, but that’s what was happening.

When first Sendak took him from Thace, Shiro had smelled of nothing so much as chemical disinfectants. Now, he smelled like sweat, leftover fear, and the dirt he’d rolled in when he’d tried to damage himself. And blood. Shiro smelled of that too, from banging his broken hand around, and from Sendak’s… lack of self-discipline. But with his hand draped over Sendak’s shoulder and a crosswind blowing in their faces, the smell wasn’t as apparent. Which was lucky. Sendak’s thoughts were uncooperative enough _without_ a constant reminder of how long since he’d last eaten.

Until the wind changed. Which, of course it did.

Shiro went in and out a few more times. When they finally reached the ship – and none too soon – he was blinking himself awake, and his hands had again begun moving on their own.

Sendak set him down in a seat, watching the safety restraints lock themselves into place. Then rooted around the ship until he dug up a length of cord, which he presented to Shiro, motioning towards his hands.

Darkened eyes tried to focus on him (in the brighter light of the ship’s interior,  _nothing_  about them looked healthy). Sendak watched exhaustion cede way to apprehension. And to reluctance. No one would want to be tied down with an enemy nearby.

But Shiro’s tired face clouded over – he had only one enemy here, and it wasn’t Sendak. Without a word, he placed both hands on the armrests of his seat.

Three loops around his left forearm.

Five around his right.

Sendak dropped down into the next seat and then they were off.

He had expected a hundred different things to go wrong.

But all told, they did fairly well. Three times, they were nearly caught. Sendak’s ship was only capable of short warp jumps, and so they periodically had to drop back into realspace and let the system cycle back down. Once, during a drop that skirted the edge of occupied space, they evaded capture by attaching themselves to an asteroid and shutting everything down, including life support, as completely dark as possible, to hide and wait until they were clear to warp jump away.

Once, they’d been hailed and asked to identify themselves, but they jumped before a lock on the ship was finalized.

It wasn’t always that simple.

In the midst of an active pursuit, fighters right behind them ( _motivated_ fighters at that), Shiro had drowsily mumbled, “Incoming,” pointing a finger to one of the aft displays  _just_ in time for Sendak to heel the ship over, and let cannonfire pass underneath them. Not a single tick too soon, and if Sendak had delayed responding, they’d have both been atomized.

Humbling.

Or disconcerting.

But then, with barely any prodrome or aura, Shiro had another fit. And Sendak learned what it was like to dodge laserfire while  _listening_  to him have it. To the rhythmic  _thump, thump,_ of head meeting seatback. The noise of restraints stretching as they were tugged and tested. Gnashing teeth and a low keen that gagged and that sputtered, but never made its way into words. And to Sendak’s own voice, absently calling to  _keep calm,_ though Shiro almost certainly didn’t hear, and Sendak had since abandoned calm himself.

Shiro lost consciousness before it was over. When they’d safely warped away from their pursuers, Sendak had to tamp down on the dread crawling up his spine before he turned to investigate. The sight snared him. Shiro’s head hung low, even as his hands still skittered and twisted. Sweat darkened his white hair and put a sick sheen to his face, already shot through with purpled veins. Thick red blood dripped from his mouth, he must have bitten himself rather badly.

There weren’t many sights Sendak found disturbing. This should not have numbered among them. But he remembered the gooey weight of his eye in his hand. Remember blood flowing fast, remembered smiling at the way –  

The remainder of the trip was quieter.

When they dropped into realspace for the last time, Sendak was ready to be done with this. In the last vargas, he’d hauled the Earthling down a mountain and halfway across the galaxy. Watched him shift between awareness and incoherence. And a self-destructive violence that Sendak would have preferred to never see again outside his own nightmares. He was more than ready to be done.

The crew of the Altean Castleship was a distrustful lot. But they were where they were supposed to be, at the time they were supposed to be there. The huge craft loomed ahead, undeniable and imposing, and Sendak didn’t bother to mask his relief. Not that Shiro would notice anyway. 

He hailed the ship, and a wary face appeared.

“Princess-…” Condemnation, what was her name again?

But he didn’t get a chance to say another word. And he was  _not_ prepared for what interrupted him. In no way could Sendak brace for a prodigious creature of black and silver to burst into being, right in front of them, large enough to fill the entire viewport.

Nor was he prepared for it to bear down on and close its jaws over his hull.

The princess’ face shorted and disappeared, and  _damn_  all things, he’d been heading in anyway! The stupid beast thought he would come so far only to turn tail  _now?_  The Lion crunched down tighter and the whole ship _jerked,_ and Sendak wanted to scream at the thing to cease, before it damaged –

Too late. Sendak slumped back in his seat, watching no less than ten different displays flash obnoxiously bright, perfectly in time with the throbbing headache right behind his eyes.

Head lolling, Shiro remained perfectly oblivious.

Not true. Not quite true, his face slackened a little. And he breathed a bit easier.

Sendak reconsidered the idea of strangling him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Escape? Check.  
> Exhuming of things too-long buried? Check.  
> Tense, miserable car-ride home? Check.  
> Guess what we get to do next!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Round Robin! Four POVs crammed in this lil chappie! And I'm so sorry, Sendak fans, but he's cooling his heels, this time. This is a Pidge and Hunk (+2) chap!  
> (Remember how I said this thing is a haggis? Did I not say that? Oh. Well, this thing is a haggis. Every disorganized mishmash is here)  
> Also, there’s a plotbit used here that I _hope_ becomes a trope. You’ll know it when you see it. In case you haven’t already read them (and b/c I can’t resist fic recs) it’s also been used to tear-jerking effect by two very clever authors, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7718974/chapters/17591596) and [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7984318/chapters/18268852) (Checking these out is a _good_ decision.)  
>  Big TY to the amazing [Gitwrecked,](https://gitwrecked.tumblr.com/) for reading over this and pointing out "Sass, that's not how English works" for the times when my sleepy noggin forgot how English works.  
> FINAL THING (sorry, there a lot of these today)  
> A little bit of disclosure--this chapter’s a little more, let's say 'personally informed.' Between family members and once-upon-a-time having been an assistant-instructor for hippotherapy classes, I’ve had some experience with kids and adults with various chronic physical and mental conditions (and in NO way am I trying to say that has made me an expert on either). In any case, i did try not to let reality bleed too much into fic-land. But maaaaaaybe just a couple of Hunk’s lines (hah, the selfish ones anyway) are kinda him being my catharsis child...  
> B Y E

  
 

They wait. Bayards all drawn, shoulders tight. Allura’s got a look on her face like she’s chewing nails, Coran stands by a gurney.

They’re all set.

Pidge bounces on her toes a bit. Sendak’s on the ship. Loose. Sendak’s in the Black Lion’s hangar, practically unsupervised (but for said Black Lion, of course. The presence of the giant, domineering space cat is, to be honest, most of what’s keeping Pidge from freaking out).

She hears the chime. Everyone tenses, the doors slide open, and then he’s right there. Different arm, different uniform. Same eye, same teeth.

And there’s Shiro.

Pidge hears a gasp from Hunk, and a murmured "Oh damn" from Lance, and she logs that away. And some indistinguishable noise from Keith. Like a low whine in his throat, but he cuts it off in under a second. She’s not sure what it was supposed to be, but it’s on record now as the most wounded sound she’s ever heard him make (and Pidge has heard him take some knocks). She doesn’t add to the soundtrack herself. Her chest feels too tight to force noise out anyway.

_ Damn,_ Pidge had forgotten how huge Sendak is. He’s taller than average for a Galra, and the Galra average is probably around 8 feet. Shiro looks tiny. If Sendak wanted to, he could take a single clawed hand and wrap it around Shiro’s head. Pidge pictures talons punching through skin, then  

He scares her.

It hits right then that that’s what the feeling is, tiptoeing along her spine and making it tough to think. He really, really scares her. Which is stupid. They have him outnumbered and outgunned, but Pidge feels sick, all because  _idiot, you’re just scared._

After they caught him the first time, they let Pidge take his old prosthetic. She gutted it. Completely gutted it, took apart all the inner workings, mucked around as much as she wanted. And when she’d exhausted everything it could teach her about Galra tech, she took the remnants and smashed them under Green’s foot.

That doesn’t keep her from remembering how it caged her entire torso, big enough to crush her at any second.

And she’d better deal with that, because Sendak has Shiro. The last time that happened, it involved Shiro screaming in Pidge’s ears, while she fought the urge to yank her helmet off and chuck it away. Now, Sendak has him again, and he’s not screaming ( _not moving; not conscious; something under his shirt is glowing(?) purple. Bad; bad; probably worse_ ).

Pidge isn’t as scared as she is _mad_. It’s all that keeps her hands from shaking.

“Okay,” Keith’s voice comes out tightly coiled like a snake. “Now, hand him over.”

Sendak curls a lip, and Pidge wants very much to use the bayard she’s holding. “You seem tense.”  _Noticed that, did you?_ “Thace said he warned you. You agreed to this. So, why do I see all of you armed? Is the word of the Voltron Paladins worth so little?”

“Just put him down.” Pidge notches Keith up from  _snake_  to  _pit viper._

“You aren’t asking what happened to him?”

“Anything a healing pod won’t fix?”

“Possibly.”

“Put. Him. Down.” Keith looks like he’s about two seconds from exploding. And if Pidge is any judge, she’d say he has approximately zero fucks to give about a clemency promise they made to a stranger.  _Which would normally be odd for Keith. Consider that later._

Tension ripples through Sendak’s posture and, “The situation is more complicated.” He shifts backwards half a step, clutching Shiro a little closer.

There’s sweat, starting to dampen Pidge’s suit. She’d been so nervous – they’d trusted someone  _else_  to take care of Shiro, even though Shiro’s  _theirs_ and you’re supposed to take care of what belongs to you, not leave it to anyone else. She’s nervous now ( _not nervous, you’re scared_ ). She doesn’t like the way Sendak’s holding him, she doesn’t like the way Shiro’s not resisting. She doesn’t like the dried blood at his lip, she doesn’t like that his eyes aren’t open, she wants Sendak  _out of here_ so they can all calm down and deal with this.

“Your beast – _this_ one’s beast,” and he jerks his chin down at Shiro, “has left me indisposed.”

“We noticed.” Irrationally ( _hypocritical too_ ) Pidge finds Keith’s belligerence annoying. Things are tense enough, as it is. “So, give him over, then turn around and limp your way to the nearest friendly port to get it fixed.”

Sendak flares, “Which is where?” And there he goes, wrapping tighter around Shiro again, because he _knows_ what they’d do to him if Shiro weren’t in their way. And, with a lifeless sort of complacency, Shiro just tolerates it.

Allura takes that as her cue to step forward, all tall and regal and gorgeous, and  _God, finally,_ because Keith sucks at this. Pidge would have taken over, but she ( _is terrified_ ) sucks at it too.

The princess is quiet for a few seconds. Her face has lost the nail-chewing look (maybe she’s about to start spitting).

“You are reprehensible.” Nope. Instead, her voice does the thing where it turns clipped and scathing and whatever other calm, scornful qualities Allura probably mastered at dignitary school. “Like all of your kind. Were you acting alone, I would take my paladin from you,” – _wouldn’t that be a sight to see?_ – “And I would escort you out an airlock.” Sans pod this time. And though that goes unspoken, Pidge feels the corner of her mouth twitch upward (which is maybe inappropriate).

This is good. Allura’s a princess; talks are her thing. She once got an entire Balmera to stand up and resist, with a less-than-3-minute speech. Getting people to cooperate – getting people like Sendak  _out of here_  – this is what she’s good at.

But then she goes and ruins it. “You are not acting alone.”  _Waitaminute._ “And you will find that  _my word_ is worth a great deal.”  _Shit._

The way it went was they’d just started receiving these transmissions. Brief, brusque transmissions from two people in masks (two at least, given the different voices). One hailed them out of nowhere, tossed the Black Lion practically on their doorstep, explained virtually nothing, and then just turned around and left. Then, before a single day went by (before they’d even finished fine-toothed combing the Lion for the bugs and traps they’d  _absolutely_  expected to find) more calls came in.

Pidge still doesn’t know who these people are. She doesn’t even know what species they are or what their allegiance is. But one of them had Shiro and he talked about Sendak and apparently Sendak’s with them and now the princess is about to  _ruin it_ because they owe these people and they did promise.

Pidge keeps her face stone cold. But she thinks she might be wearing a new grip into her bayard.

“I do not leave open debts. I saw your… ship, when the Lion brought you in.” Pidge isn’t sure if she actually hears mockery in Allura’s voice, or if she’s just supposed to  _think_ she hears it.  _God, she is good_ (now, if only she weren’t about to ruin it). “The left forward engine is gone, at the least.

“You may remain here.”  _Nope, shut up,_  and Pidge wants to break something. Next to her, Keith is growling. _-ing,_ he’s growl _ing._ Like, present participle; an ongoing action. Pidge wasn’t sure that was a thing human larynxes could do, but Keith manages just fine.

“For just as long as it takes you to affect repairs.” _Fuck,_ now it’s real. The idea’s out in open air and Pidge wants to snatch it back. And, perhaps unfairly, she wants to punch Princess Allura, right in her regal face. “As agreed, you will not be harmed.”

Keith’s growling gets a hair louder. The sound makes Allura’s shoulders tighten.

Sendak’s reaction is less subtle. His head juts forward, turning to Keith and tossing out a snarl of his own. It rumbles, like something out of a tiger (or a lion; Pidge surprises herself when she doesn’t jump), and he snaps, “Stop that.”

And Keith stops. He takes one-two-three steps back and –  _what, wait up, hang on –_ he lowers his bayard an inch or so –  _Keith, the hell are you doing? –_ eyes wide and confused. But then he gets over it. Shaking his head, he stiffens right back up, bayard and growling both firmly back in place.

That was weird. That was anomalous. _More on that later._

It’s a few more tense seconds, and then with a huff, Sendak relaxes.

Or, not relaxes, but maybe just reconsiders his options. Still scowling, he takes a deep breath through his nose (it makes him flinch, looking nauseated). He steps forward, to where Coran stands (stoic and grim-faced, and very un-Coran-like). Handling Shiro like he’s a bomb that might go off, Sendak sets him down on the gurney. Pidge hopes she’s imagining the way Shiro unconsciously curls towards him, when his back first meets the metal surface.  _Maybe it’s just cold. Seems like a design flaw._

But the hand Shiro claps to Sendak’s wrist? The sound he makes when Sendak starts to pull away? Nope, she’s not imagining that. But she’s finding it a little too incongruous and a lot too uncomfortable, and frankly, “What the hell?”

Sendak flicks his hand up to bat Shiro away, but at the last second he freezes, probably remembering just where he is and how many angry ( _no, you’re scared, just admit it_ ) weapons are pointed at him.

“Just confused.” Instead, he takes Shiro’s hand, prying his fingers off, one at a time. “The witch’s poison has settled in his mind.” _The what?_ “He has tried to throttle himself already. Tried to claw out his eyes.”

Sendak frees himself and jerks backward before Shiro can grab him again. Shiro’s arm flops down, still reaching. And he makes the same noise again. Half-gasp, half-whimper, all-protest; another of those sounds that, to Pidge, feel like voyeurism.

Shiro would never want her to hear him like this, he’d  _never_ want her to see him like this; all out of his head like he is (she wishes – she  _wishes –_ he could trust them with the shakier parts of himself, but the fact is that he doesn’t). He doesn’t even know she’s here, paying witness to his incoherence. He didn’t – couldn’t – choose to let her see it. 

And…  _wait, what?_ Pidge sucks in a breath because Shiro tried to  _what_ now?

_ Claw out his eyes. Throttle himself. You heard, don’t you pretend you didn’t. _

_ You scared now? _

Allura doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Coran, please take Shiro to the infirmary, while we settle the rest of this matter.”  _About time_. Maybe now, things might – “Pidge, please accompany him.”

_ What? Why?  _ That doesn’t make sense, Pidge should stay. Pidge is the one with the suppressive, nonlethal force bayard! Lance and Hunk just have _guns,_ Pidge is the one who can modulate response. 

But a dismissal’s a dismissal. Pidge isn’t about to be the idiot who undermines her superior in sight of an unfriendly.

Turning to walk at Coran’s elbow, Pidge hears the princess continue. “I want to know the full extent of what has happened to my paladin. I want to know what you meant about the healing pods…”

“And?”

“And why you are doing this.” Now she’s using that  _’Could cut glass’_ voice she likes to keep handy. The scary one. “You people brought us the Black Lion. You brought us the Black Paladin. For nothing? For the greater good? I don’t believe that.”

Pidge had slowed down, trying to hear every last word. Coran hisses her name and gives her a _look_ that has her jogging to catch up.

***

Pidge almost left these guys once.

When she started this, her goals were small. Find Dad, find Matt. And when her goals and Voltron’s goals began to misalign, she tried to leave.

She almost managed it. She would have been alone. For awhile, she  _was_ alone. Hunk and Coran were gone, Keith and Allura locked out, Lance and Shiro were caught. And Lance might have been dying,  _Lance could have died._ And then Shiro was screaming, the way people do when they grit their teeth and try hard not to make a sound.

She lost the team. She was alone. 

Then Rover helped her kill someone.

Then she lost Rover too.

And from beginning to end, there was a steady stream of  _You asked for this; it’s your fault you’re alone,_ playing on loop in the back of her head. It didn’t stop when Allura and Keith trapped Sendak, it didn’t stop when she cut Shiro loose, or when they got Lance into a pod.  _You asked for it,_ it did not stop, not until Keith smiled absolution and let her back in.

_ “Good to have you back on the team.” _

Pidge hasn’t let herself forget the time she nearly left. Never. It was mostly just a lot of dumb luck that she didn’t get what she’d asked for. She could have lost all of them.

So when they were all here, and Shiro and Black were gone, she’d felt like losing her mind. Pidge was the one everybody had turned to, to find them. There was “ _Can’t you somehow listen in on…”, “Isn’t there a way to track down…”_ and other idiot questions. And the thing was, they weren’t idiot questions because they made no sense. And they weren’t idiot questions because they came from well-meaning teammates who had  _no grasp_ of the kind of work Pidge actually did all the time.

No, they were idiot questions because her answer should have just been  _yes. Yes I can. I’ll find him._ But it wasn’t. She _couldn’t_ find him. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t lose them ever again, and yet she came up empty.

Only now, Shiro’s back. Pidge was  _useless,_ but it’s okay, he’s back. Or he will be, when he wakes up.

He didn’t stir at all when she was helping Coran with him. Getting him into one of the medsuits was a nightmare, but Coran insisted. The heavy, uncooperative mess of boneless human hadn’t seemed like Shiro at all. Stripping him down, Pidge deliberately didn’t stare at the dozens of scars she’d guessed at, but never had confirmed. She would not look, she didn’t need to know. Coran was their medic, let him look. Not Pidge. If and when she learned of this, it would be on Shiro’s schedule. So, Coran carefully held him upright, while Pidge did not stare but just helped to cram limbs through sleeves.

Her hasty hands slipped while trying to unwrap his wrist, and she knew it must have hurt like a bitch. But when she looked up to check, Shiro’s face was quiet. Breathing shallow, his forehead was still awkwardly wedged against Coran’s neck, exactly where it had flopped when he was hoisted up. His skin was still just as clammy and waxy-looking, but at least he wasn’t awake for how  _bad_ Pidge was at this.

It was purple. His hand that is. It was purple. Not bright, creepy Galra purple, but dark, plum-colored, and swollen up twice the size it should have been.

No, the creepy Galra purple was everywhere else. It glared up at her from where his side was cut open and  _not bleeding._ It spider-webbed across the knolls and ridges on his skin, where his veins were slowly vacillating between the bright light of an alien magic, and the more familiar near-black of a septic, dying human.

Pidge shudders at the memory. He was… he was pretty bad. But he’s been in the pod 4 hours now, and the pods are nothing short of amazing. It seems like, as long as it’s not  _quite_  dead yet, they can fix pretty much anything.

And when they do, then he’ll wake up. And he’ll officially be home. And they can dump Sendak somewhere and forget this ever happened.

She thinks Hunk and Allura are still with Sendak, half-getting a diagnostic on his damaged ship, half-watching him like a pair of hawks. Coran’s probably monitoring Shiro. Who knows where Lance and Keith are? Pidge had watched the pod close and frost over. She’d stared at Shiro’s slack face long enough to satisfy herself that  _yes, okay. Done. We’re done._

Then, it all sort of hit at once – Shiro being alive, Shiro being back. Knowing that he’ll wake up, that he’s almost home. They’ll all be right again, when he is. Knowing that Sendak’s here. He’s inside in the castle, he’s barely restrained, Sendak is _loose in her home_. Feeling scared and worried and exhausted down to her toes (she hates sleeping, but when did she sleep last?), knowing Shiro’s here but  _look what they did to him_ – her vision had blurred, and she’d booked it for Green before Coran could watch her come apart.

She’s currently curled up in the joint of her Lion’s foreleg. There’d been a little bit of crying, but nothing too crazy. Pidge likes to think she isn’t much a crier (or maybe it’s just still inbound. Who knows?) She’s got her laptop open. A few things had been sitting on her To Do list. Brainless work, which is why she’d let it slide. Boring, but right now, boring is perfect.

Green’s humming. Sometimes she purrs, but right now it’s a hum. A steady unbroken tone, keeping Pidge from flying apart in every direction. The simple reminder that Green’s here, her Lion is right here. And further back, far behind her, Pidge can also feel Yellow, Blue, Red, Black, all of them  _just_ skirting the edges of her mind. Like they always do. She can barely make them out but even so, Black feels so different, from even just a day ago. Like the storm’s over now, and yeah, Pidge supposes it is.

_ Please, let it stay that way._ She’s had enough. Like the most fearful of supplicants, Pidge petitions all five of them,  _Please. Just for a bit._

Dry-eyed and surrounded by stillness, Pidge sits and sways. Green holds her close, and the pride hums.

***

When Sendak told them what had happened, Hunk kept it together.

When Allura left him and Lance  _alone_ with a cuffed-but-that’s-it Sendak (and  _why_ them? They had the least experienced with him out of anyone), Hunk kept it together.

When Lance  _didn’t,_ and Allura had to come back and relieve him, yep, Hunk _still_ kept it together (he gets it though. Technically, Lance never met him, but Hunk knows Sendak still freaks him out plenty).

When Sendak sits across from Hunk and Allura and explains in detail how one of Hunk’s best friends now has this  _thing_ where he tries to destroy his eyes and scratch up his face and hurt himself, Hunk has a few questions. A few. A few hundred. Because that’s what smart people do when they don’t understand something. They ask a boatload of questions (or they waste 8 hours of their lives figuring it out themselves,  _Pidge._ But today, there isn’t really time).

Anyway. Yes, Hunk definitely has questions. And to his credit, or at least his sense of self-interest, Sendak is quite obliging.

Like… so he really tries to… ? (Yes.) Like, the Galra arm acts on its own? (No. Involvement of both hands; done deliberately.) But can’t he just… not do that? (Sometimes, when concentrating.) Any warning signs? (Not necessarily. It might occur during a fit, or it could happen on its own.) Fit? (Or something like one. Do seizures not happen to Earthlings?) They do.

Hunk leans back. That’s uhm… He asks Allura to spell him for a bit, then excuses himself. He doesn’t go far, doesn’t even leave the room, just… he needs a minute.

They just got Shiro back. They  _just_ got him back. And it was stupid of Hunk to do this, but somehow he’d been operating under the assumption that when Shiro got back, things would resolve. No more sleepless nights, no more Pidge pretending she wasn’t crying, no more Keith trying to step up even though he’s clearly terrified. No more Allura always having her fists clenched, and Lance staring like a robot, and Coran and Hunk just… just worrying. Just trying, for the others.

Hunk is really, really tired. He’d been scared too. He had, he’d been scared. And he’d thought that when Shiro came home…

But Shiro’s here now. And he’s… sick. With something strange and terrifying, for which Hunk has zero real-life reference. Sendak broke it down to basic, clinical, unfeeling language, but it’s not… it’s not…

It doesn’t work. Trying to imagine this in the same context as Shiro, just doesn’t work. Shiro isn’t like that. Shiro keeps his shit together better than anyone Hunk’s ever met (which, with Hunk having near-exclusively met people who are  _not_ coming down off a year of alien imprisonment, is really,  _really_  saying a lot).

And he’s not saying Shiro’s not fucked up, because Shiro is kind of fucked up. If Shiro weren’t fucked up after where he’s been, Hunk would have  _serious_ reservations, trusting him with his life practically every day.

Hunk knows full well how brittle a smile Shiro will chance to hold in place. His unwillingness to remove himself from situations where he shouldn’t be. And Hunk’s seen it when his eyes stop moving and he drifts for awhile, before gasping at nothing and looking around like he doesn’t know how he got there. He’s caught him at night (when Hunk’s own nightmares kept him awake), taking his frustrations out on the training deck with a will that was pretty unsettling, the first few times Hunk saw.

Once, Hunk caught him up late when he wasn’t training. Instead, he’d been in a hall, halfway up one of the walls, feet braced with his body wedged into a corner formed between the moulding and raftering.

Curled up as small as he could get, eyes wide open, while his arm flickered on and off.

What had precipitated it, and how the hell he’d even gotten himself up there was anybody’s guess (though  _nightmare +/- panic attack,_ and _by being Shiro,_ were the most probable answers). But stuck on the ground, unable to reach him, it had taken Hunk almost an hour of talking himself hoarse, before Shiro even blinked in his direction.

Then it had taken him another twenty minutes before Shiro started talking back.

Ultimately, it had taken Hunk and four Altean mice halfway to proverbial sun-up, to get Shiro to come down.

All his limbs had been shaking by the time his feet hit the floor. He’d swayed a little where he stood, and Hunk caught him up and just sort of… didn’t let go. Shiro trembled like a leaf and Hunk held on.

Later that morning, Shiro got to wake up on the floor, to the sound of giggling and half-muffled choruses of “D’aaawwww,” with mice tucked up next to him, and Hunk sitting by his head. Actually, if Hunk had been more on the ball, he’d have maybe motioned in time to keep the others quiet, and Shiro could have caught a few more minutes shuteye. 

But Hunk had just been up all night. By that point, he’d fallen into a doze himself, right there in the hallway.

So yes, Hunk knows. He gets it. Shiro has it together way better than could reasonably be expected, but he’s  _far_ from alright. And now…

Sighing out an explosive breath, Hunk pinches the bridge of his nose (from across the room, he maybe imagines Sendak’s ear twitching at the sound). Shiro’s back, and it was stupid of Hunk to think things would be okay now. Shiro’s home and he’s going to need help. Probably a lot of it. More of it than they’re used to giving, but that’s just the way it is.

Hunk’s tired. But when people are tired, that’s usually when the universe asks them to step up anyway.

So he’ll step up.

He returns to Sendak and Allura, and he asks some more questions. And a few more. He grills Sendak on everything he knows, taking full advantage of the lack of Shiro-shaped meat shield for Sendak to hide behind.

Again, (smart man) Sendak is forthcoming – Will he attack us? (Perhaps, if you are in his way.) Does he know what he’s doing? (Most likely. And if asked during the right frame of mind, he may give an argument for the merits of his doing it.) 

Maybe Sendak’s a little _too_ forthcoming, because by the time Hunk knows everything he can think to ask about, he’s feeling a little sick. Beside him, Allura’s complexion is a few shades off. Her markings don’t look remotely the right color.

“If you think of more questions, ask them. In the meantime,” Sendak stands without bothering to first get permission, “my ship? Shockingly enough, I do have other duties to attend to, and I don’t prefer to linger here.”

Hunk scrubs a hand through his hair, then fixes his headband and they go to take a look.

***

Search parties, listening ears. A corner of the empire, out in force.

The Black Lion was captured far, far from the capital. Contained on a ship that possessed some of the most advanced warp capabilities in the empire (still nothing like the Altean teladuv engines of old, but Galra technology is always advancing). And yet, it  _still_  did not even make the full journey to the emperor, before it vanished.

It’s not the first time this has happened with a Lion. All the same, very embarrassing.

And if not soon corrected, perhaps very lethal. The emperor does not suffer fools kindly.

Thace is minding his own affairs, taking a short recess near one of the viewports, to go over his reports – the steady stream of  _Nothing, Nothing, No trace, Nothing found, Nothing, Nothing,_ is rather a comfort – when he just so happens to look up, catching his reflection in the port.

Haggar the witch is standing right behind him.

He does not jump into the air, but it’s a near thing (his pulse makes the leap instead). Whirling around, he composes himself into a bow. Carefully _not_ choking on his tongue, he greets her, “Your Holiness,” before stepping back a respectful distance; a simple lieutenant, meeting the Druid matriarch. “Please pardon my inattention, can I be of assistance?”

As though he’d not spoken, she slowly shuffles forward until her face is by the port, pointed out at the stars. She doesn’t spare him a glance.

The silence quickly grows oppressive. Thace’s pulse has barely had a chance to slow, before it’s speeding back up again. Was there something more he was meant to say?

She stands half his size, hunched like a carrion bird and quiet as a tomb. Thace had heard tell that she brought the cold with her wherever she went, but he’d dismissed it as nonsense.

He’d never had to stand this close to her.

When he can’t handle the quiet any longer, he clears his throat as unobtrusively as he can. “Is there anything–”

“You are new,” she interrupts. Her voice is a rasp, metal on metal.

Thace grits his teeth. Not just  _new,_ he’s the new _est_. He is the newest, the least-trusted, and she wastes no time in addressing that. “That is correct. I’ve been recently reassigned, to join the task force assembled by Commander Prorok.” His voice remains clipped. Professional. Injected with hopefully the appropriate hint of nerves (a soldier who wasn’t nervous of Her Holiness would be a suspicious sight indeed).

But, he reminds himself, he has nothing to hide. He is a recent transfer. He is one of  _thousands_ of transfers and reserves, all called into active service when Voltron appeared.

She doesn’t speak, so he offers a progress report. “The Black Lion remains at large. So far, checkpoints have–”

“You enjoy working for Prorok?”

Thace wishes she wouldn’t stay quiet, right until he speaks, only to  _then_ interrupt him. It’s unbalancing.

And he realizes full well that hers is not a safe question to answer. 

Thace had not been working for Prorok more than a day and a half, before the man (loudly) informed him of his political leanings, regarding the Druids. His tirade had included several phrases like “creeping rot”, “overstepped themselves”, “weakening the empire”, “degradation”, “from the inside out”, and so on and so forth.

It hadn’t taken much imagination to parse what kind of reputation Prorok carries with him. How other people might view him and his associates. 

Haggar inclines her head just enough to reveal a sliver of one eye, watching carefully. Not enough for him to make out her expression.

To be on the safe side, he schools his own face – discomfited enough to convey loyalty to his commander. Diffident enough to avoid hinting any challenge. A lowly soldier, honored and unsettled to be speaking with the Incarnate (the head of the Order; the Pneumascribe who stands beside the Imperator).

Sweat is starting to gather under his fur.

“Commander Prorok is a dedicated servant. I am honored to work with him, for the betterment of the empire.” His own words make him cringe. Getting nervous and layering on the patriotism won’t earn him anything. “He, and many–”

“You were on duty.” Thace’s mouth clicks shut. Every time she interrupts like that, his throat gets a little tighter. “When the Black Lion was lost. It was your watch that slipped.”

Thace isn’t such a fool as to point out that he is  _not_ in fact, the only person in command of this ship. And he does  _not_  mention, not even in his own head, that the paladin at least, had escaped on  _Haggar’s_ watch as well (if it’s ever safe enough, he’ll pause for a breath and be proud of that). Instead, he bites down on his tongue before the traitor thing can waggle out an excuse. It’s all in his report. Everything is in his report, which she has seen already. He doesn’t need to offer excuses, he needs to demonstrate that he is addressing the error. “I have put out a bulletin, in this system and those neighboring, for any ships of adequate size and make, and possessed of warp capabilities. Every checkpoint is aware. I have people monitoring all communications in this sector, for any whispers. And I have dispatched multiple teams to supplement existant patrols.”

(All of which has turned up nothing. On account of it all being turned the wrong way. And subtly pushed to search in  _every_  conceivable location, save hopefully for the correct one. Thace hopes the Alteans are grateful.)

“And as to your-… to the  _paladin,_  a ship was sighted entering the Bornai way, en route to the Varduri–”

She cuts a dismissive hand through the air. “Only the Lion.”

Thace shuts his mouth but internally, his mind is spinning. Why only the Lion? She’d practically come running when they had the paladin in custody. She no longer cares? Why? 

“Your trifling search attempts aside,” she croaks out, and his puzzling grinds to a halt, “There is the underlying matter.”

And Thace’s spine goes cold. He is  _not_ the only one in command of this ship, fault should not rest just with him. But still, he’d known this could happen – “The Black Lion of Voltron in your grasp,” – he’d known it from the beginning.

Thace finds his feet nailed to the floor. Her eyes burn, unnaturally bright, pinning him in place like an insect. “Your _Emperor’s_ goal.” He’d feared her learning what was in his head. But that won’t be a problem if he’s about to be executed for base incompetence.

“And you _lost_ him.”

Pressed against his back, Thace feels the line of his knife. The weight of the hidden sheath had often served as a comfort here, surrounded by his enemies. But it won’t help him now. If she has decided, then he is already dead. No trial, no chance. An insect, crushed under her foot.

“The empire does not abide weakness.” 

He served the Blade. He did his share. He preserved Voltron from capture, he liberated the Black Lion. 

Whatever else, he knows he served.

“Call off your searches. Return to your duties.” 

…

What?

Thace had fixed his eyes open (if her hand was to sing forth lighting and burn out his life, he was going to meet it head on) and now they stretch wide in his face. Getting his mouth to work is a trial. “Call off the searches?”

“And call a transport for my use.”

Thace blinks like an idiot. “Transport?”

The witch peels her lips back into a smile (he would like nothing more than to look elsewhere). She’s laughing at him. It may be the only reason she forgives repeating herself. “I suspect, Lieutenant, there will come a day when I will have many questions for you.”

Whatever she means, he’ll have to discover at a later date. “Go,” she says, and his feet are already shuffling away. “A transport to the capital.” 

Her gaze finally lifts from him, as she turns back to the viewport. “I have preparations to make, for a Lion Hunt of my own.”

***

Shiro’s been in the pod for 6 hours. Pidge sets her laptop aside to rub at her eyes. 

Shiro’s been in the pod for 9 hours. Pidge wakes up from her unplanned nap, to the sound of Green still humming for her.

After sleeping, she feels a bit more human and a bit less human at the same time. Her eyes are gritty. Her hair’s so greasy that scratching her head leaves gunk caked under her fingernails. And honestly, she doesn’t smell too great, either.

But the ache associated with pushing too many hours is a bit less. Her headache’s gone down. And she’s hungry.

Is she hungry? Or is she just bored? Probably both. Waiting for Shiro is like the world’s most uncomfortable holding pattern. She’s doesn’t want to be caught by surprise when he wakes up, but who knows when that will be? An hour? Another day? The pods are over 10,000 years old, she should be grateful that the only thing finicky about them is their timetables.

Pidge makes a list as she climbs down Green’s paw.  _Food. Shower. Check on Shiro._ Then she reorganizes that list.  _Food. Check on Shiro. Shower._ Actually, no. _Shower. Food. Bring food to check on Shiro._ Actually,  _should probably see where all the others are, first._

She’s amended it all the way to  _See the princess for sitrep on Sendak. Shower. Food. Bring food to eat, while seeing Shiro,_ when she checks back into the real world, only to find her feet already on their way to the infirmary, without even having asked her.

_ Hah. Figures. _

Pidge doesn’t make a habit of arguing with her subconscious, so she stays the course.

_ Where is everyone?  _ The castle’s big, but she hasn’t seen anybody in 10-ish hours. It’s making everything seem even more surreal.

But as if summoned, Pidge hears voices.

Up ahead of her. Too many to make out. But they’re loud. Pidge walks faster. _Please._ Let nothing else be falling apart.

They’re loud. They’re coming from where Shiro’s supposed to be peacefully getting better, and Pidge is sprinting.  _Don’t,_ she thinks. _Please, nothing else._

_Nothing else, don’t touch him._ She will  _kill_ Sendak herself, if he’s– 

One hand clawed into the doorjamb, she tears around the corner, sprinting into the room like a lunatic, and she’s greeted with bedlam.  

“– get him back in”

“Shiro? Hey! Stop tha–  _hey!_ ”

“Hold him still”

“ _You,_ just stand the _hell_ back, where I can see both–”

“Shiro,  _stop it_ ”

“Don’t let him go”

“Wait, don’t–”

“Shiro, listen”

“Stop it”

“Shiro,  _please_ ”

_Please,_ she’s running forward, sliding on her knees to elbow her way into the panic. 

_ Please, please _

***

When Shiro was gone, what did Hunk do? Yeah, he kept it together. When Sendak told them what happened, Hunk went right on keeping it together. When he and Allura quizzed him on everything that had happened, and Sendak elucidated, then Hunk freaked out a little bit.

But it’s okay, he’s got it. He can handle this.

Lance and Keith spell him and he takes as much of a nap as he can. Sendak, it’s been agreed, will be spending nights in a cell, when night comes. He flat out refused to step anywhere near a pod. Said he’d let them shoot him first. As Hunk settles into sleep, something about that makes him feel uneasy.

When a frantic call from Coran buzzes in his ear, then he’s awake and suddenly freaking out again.

Hunk sprints into the infirmary. Shiro’s out of the pod. Early.

He’s on the floor. And all that trouble Hunk was having? The trouble bringing together the notion of  _Shiro,_ indomitable Black Paladin and one of the best and toughest people Hunk knows, with the notion of  _paroxysms; attempts to self-mutilate; needs to be restrained_ – he’s suddenly not having that trouble.

The noise of Shiro’s head swinging back to hit the floor is something that’ll stay with Hunk a long time.

Standing apart, cuffs back on his hands (and held at gunpoint), Sendak is barking orders like “Hold his head”, “Wait”, “It passes, keep him still,” and Hunk doesn’t think twice about listening. He drops to the floor across from Allura, who’s moved a hand to Shiro’s head, holding it down. She’s got her other wrapped around his wrist, pinning it to the floor. Hunk briefly contemplates what will happen if Shiro decides to light that hand up while she’s holding on.

Before he can convince himself he smells something burning, Hunk grabs Shiro’s other arm. He knows he’s stronger than Shiro is, but Shiro’s flailing so hard Hunk’s given to wonder.

Everyone’s yelling and that can’t be helping anything. The arch in Shiro’s back suddenly rounds into a bow instead, and that’s the only warning Hunk gets, before Shiro’s foot snaps up to nearly catch him in the face. He ducks but almost forfeits hold of Shiro’s arm in the process. But then Keith’s there, putting a stop to that by the simple act of sitting on Shiro’s legs. Between him and Coran, and Hunk and Allura, Shiro’s not going anywhere.

Oh, but Keith looks  _awful._  It makes Hunk’s chest twist even tighter. Shiro is… well, they all love Shiro, but Keith’s… 

Hunk spares a glance for the corner, where Lance’s bayard is pointed at Sendak’s head, while its owner stands with skin the color of sour milk. But he’s keeping it together. Probably wanting nothing more than fling himself into the chaos alongside them, but he keeps a bead on Sendak. Hunk’s going to tell him he’s proud of him after this. As soon as this latest shitstorm settles.

_ Settle. Please just settle. _

_ Leave him alone, leave us alone. _

At least Pidge isn’t here to see–

Which is when Pidge comes running in. Sliding on her knees, she takes Shiro’s blank face in both hands, adding her voice to all the useless yelling.

Hunk experiences a second of pure unadulterated panic when Allura’s face twists. She’s gone rigid and he  _absolutely smells something burning_

– before Shiro’s arm goes dark. And Hunk nearly overbalances when suddenly, he has nothing he’s bracing against. Slowly, ever so slowly, Shiro ticks back down, until his body’s flat on the floor; if not relaxed, then at least no longer struggling. Allura leans back, pulling her hand from Shiro’s forehead, to cradle her other (and oh, her  _hand–_ ) The yelling is gone. The only sound left is Pidge crying, like she does so rarely. Asking in a very small voice, “Are you here? Shiro? Hey. Are you back now? Shiro?”

And then Hunk gets to see the way Shiro’s eyes clear. And the relief hits so hard that Hunk’s head swims. Shiro’s pupils constrict. His eyes start blinking. And then he’s with them. For the first time since this whole mess started, he’s really here with them.

A blink. And another, and one more. And Shiro smiles like he’s about to cry. “Pidge,” he whispers. Quiet, like he can’t believe he sees her.

“Yeah. Yeah Shiro, you’re home.” Her fingers comb his hair back from where sweat has stuck it to his face. “You’re home now, with us.”

“You–” Trailing off, Shiro’s eyes roll until they alight on Hunk. On Keith. Allura, where Coran is wrapping her hand. And–

“Right here,” Lance calls, when Shiro starts trying to twist his head around. At his voice, Shiro sags loose, and he lets out a cracked, incredulous little laugh (Hunk doesn’t call it what it is). His eyes are wet. Blinking fast, Shiro clenches his teeth and tries to hide his face against the floor, but Pidge doesn’t let him.

“You’re home,” she murmurs it like a mantra, and Shiro presses his face into her palm instead.

He’s shivering. Coran materializes with a soft gray blanket, which he drapes lightly over Shiro’s back, letting him curl into it (or not) as he likes.

The tension finally starts to unwind out of Hunk’s shoulders. He takes a deep breath, lets it whoosh out. That was terrifying. And now, he finds that staring at the unguarded gratitude on Shiro’s face is starting to burn. Hunk glances instead, at the hand he’s still holding, and lets his grip loosen. None of Shiro’s fingers are broken anymore. But the pods heal from the inside out. The bones have been fixed, but some of the cuts are still open. One degloved finger is covered in a layer of skin so thin and new, it’s nearly transparent. Hunk rubs his thumb along the backs of Shiro’s knuckles, careful not to sting. He doesn’t know if Shiro even notices him.

“Okay, Shiro. You ready to go back in the pod?” Thankfully, Keith braves saying it, so Hunk doesn’t have to (even so, watching the way Shiro’s face falls…) Keith is shaking, whitefaced. But strangely – not strangely, it makes perfect sense – he’s smiling too. Watery but yeah, it’s a smile. Shiro’s home, of _course_ they’re all smiling.

“No, no. We won’t be doing that.” Allura’s back, keeping her damaged hand carefully out of sight, as she puts to rest any notion of going back in the pod. Shiro watches her with a look that’s too weary to be called  _suspicious_ (but Hunk’s sad to say it can’t be called  _hopeful_ either).

Gently, she confirms, “You’re not what we’d call  _done,_ ” and she carefully rolls up the edge of his suit, where all that’s visible of a wound that been  _glowing_ earlier, is a comparatively innocent-looking splash of black-and-plum bruise, “but there were always plenty of things to which the pods aren’t suited.” Her tone is light. Unwavering. “We have other options, you’ll be alright.” _Comparatively_ , Hunk decides, is an operative word. The discoloration still manages to wrap completely around Shiro’s side, swollen and dark enough to make Hunk’s stomach flip.

Which – he rocks back and forth – is starting to get a little tough to ignore.

Shiro starts to roll over, trying to struggle up onto his shaking hands and knees. But Allura scoffs and just picks him up instead. And, judging from Shiro’s gasp and the sudden whiteness of his face, Hunk may not be the only one painting the floor today. Without thinking, empathy has him reach out to rest a hand on Shiro’s forehead. He wishes his fingers were colder, but Shiro cracks a clammy smile anyway. He looks down at himself, held in Allura’s arms, blanket and all, and he lets out a chuckle. Hunk will have to ask what the joke was later.

Across the way from them,  _still_ dutifully watching Sendak (who hasn’t said a damn word since Shiro stopped moving. Just lurked in the corner like a gargoyle, watching them like they’re under a microscope), Lance calls out, “So, what’s the plan?” 

Hunk doesn’t begrudge him the way his voice shakes. That was bad enough just now, being a part of it, but if Hunk had had to stand and just _watch_? Unable to do anything else? And now that it’s all done, Lance doesn’t get to crowd in and glom his too-warm, too-sweaty hands all over Shiro, the same way Hunk gets to. Doesn’t get reassure himself that  _yes, it’s okay, it’s over._

“As I said, we have other means.” Allura steps over to a table near the wall, which has just slid right up out of the floor, the same way the pods do. And also which – there’s give when Hunk pokes a finger against the sheets – isn’t a table, it’s a bed. How familiar.

Shiro gets a little agitated when Allura starts to lean him back. Not missing a step, Allura motions Keith toward the cabinets under the table (bed), who reaches down to pull out… what look like really lumpy, uncomfortable pillows.

But Shiro doesn’t seem to mind, so long as he’s not lying flat on his back. He looks… slurry. Which isn’t a word, but it’s what Hulk has. Tired, confused, and slurry. Sendak said something like that might happen afterwards (“post-ictal,” was the word he’d used, it was probably covered in Hunk’s 34th or 35th question).

Allura bites the edge of her lip, sharing a look with Coran. A quick nod and he steps away to start shuffling through drawers which, maybe Hunk is tired too (he is, very), because he didn’t even see them appear.

“Shiro?” She waits until a bleary slow-blink is pointed to her. “If it’s alright, we’re going to give you something to put you to sleep.”

Hunk himself is a little startled by that. He remembers Shiro’s past thoughts on that ( _Nono no don’t – don’t put me under – Let me go,_ when no one had listened).

But Shiro glances back in the direction of the pods. And not having to go back inside is enough to make his face sag into something grateful (and yes,  _of course_ that sight makes Hunk angry. He’s not a particularly violent person, but  _grateful_  makes him want to bloody his fists on Zarkon’s face).

Shiro looks up at Allura. He smiles at her, soft and sad, letting her do what she wants.

Still, she quietly leans her weight on his arm when Coran approaches, needle in hand. And still, Shiro tenses when Coran cleans the inside of his elbow, and slides the needle into his vein. He curls his fingers up, to brush against Allura’s wrist, where she’s holding his. To that, she gives his hand a light squeeze, before dropping a kiss on his head. Then they all crowd around like anxious children, wanting him able to see them when he fades.

“Hey, what’s–” Shiro whispers, already half-gone, “W’happened…?”

They all look down to where Shiro’s got Allura’s hand in his. The bad one that she’d completely forgotten about (and knowing her, had probably already dismissed, seconds after it happened). Shiro’s frowning at it, looking lost. “Your… ”

Allura leans back, slipping her hand away. He makes a slow, clumsy grab for it, but he’s out before he gets anywhere.

Then they all take a step back and, practically as one, they _breathe._ Coran starts hooking up equipment that Hunk doesn’t pretend to understand. Keith wipes a hand across his eyes, then he summons his bayard, finally giving Lance a break. Lance slaps Keith on the back before making a beeline for Shiro. Sharp blue eyes dart back and forth, taking in every detail he hadn’t been privy to before. And he heaves a sigh, scrubbing a hand across his scalp, muttering something too quiet for Hunk to make out. Lance pats Shiro on the shoulder, squeezing once, before stepping back.

Hunk wraps an arm around him. His other, he offers to Pidge, who isn’t shy about accepting. Like that, they wait for an explanation from Allura.

Standing away from Shiro and Coran, so Keith can hear it, “We’ll, keep him like this until he’s healed just a little more. Hopefully, it might work to suppress this _condition_ , as it runs its course. If not… there are restraints.” She fiddles with the wrap on her hand, not looking at any of them. “As to the pod, well. As the pod heals, the occupant remains sedated. But he is not _anesthetized,_ in the true sense – there is not central nervous suppression. Importantly, it does not paralyze – the occupant is perfectly capable of moving his limbs. And it does not blunt stress responses. This design is deliberate; the pods would be unsafe otherwise. But,” Allura looks down at her clasped hands, “if the occupant  _should_ start moving. Should come under distress, or start moving violently. Or… panicking. Then, as a safety feature, nearby personnel will be alerted, and he will be discharged.”

“It’ll spit him out?”

Her face twists at the phrasing. “Yes. So that the occupant doesn’t hurt himself. Accidentally. And so that better eyes can analyze the situation. The discharge is decided by an algorithm weighing the occupant’s current health status against–”

Hunk misses the next bit. So, the pod spitting Shiro out before he’d finished healing. That was a good thing.

That was the better option.

Which, of  _all_ things, is what finally does it for him. Hunk steps away from Lance and Pidge, then he turns around and vomits.

No trashcan, no time to move. Just three times in a row, all over his shoes.

He hasn’t done that in  _months,_ but it feels just as shitty as it ever did. His stomach still clenches, his mouth fills with saliva, his eyes still water the same way (and oh surprise, he was already crying). Hands are rubbing his back, and Pidge leans on his arm, a thankfully wordless support. Hunk rests his elbows on his knees, trying not to cry and throw up at the same time because he’ll just wind up gasping puke and choking his own stupid self.

_God, Shiro. _What are they supposed to do with this? Everything Hunk’s heard during the last 24 hours. It’s too many days worrying and too little sleep… he’s probably about about to throw up again.__

____

Allura lays a cool hand on the back of his neck, then pulls him close, loosely circling both arms around his shoulders. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her jerk her head, “Get that into a cell.” Her voice sounds thin, like she’s at the end of her rope. Hunk holds her hand. When he looks, Lance and Keith and Sendak have disappeared.

____

Sendak said this will fade. He said it should go away, but what are they supposed to do in the meantime? And what if it doesn’t? What do they do about this, how do they fix it?

____

Hunk leans into Allura. He  _said_ he was going to step up here, but what’s he supposed to do?

____

____

***

____

____

Shiro wakes up warm. Which is amazing. He feels like he’s been cold forever. Shiro hears voices and he thinks that he knows them.

____

The attempt to open his eyes sends pain lancing through his skull. But he tries again. And when he finally manages, he can see them. Six faces, safe and healthy.

____

Which means that… Which means he’s not on the ship. He’s not with  _her._

____

He’s home.

____

They’re here, they’re safe. He’s _home_. 

____

He doesn’t mean for his breath to hitch, but it happens anyway. His eyes burn, so he shuts them again. A hand settles on his head and it’s– he’s–

____

Then they’re shushing him. All of them, close and quiet. He tries and fails to breathe slow, they tell him  _okay. You’re safe, you’re safe_.

____

But he’s too tired even to cry for very long. Another hand rests atop his, loosely holding the back of his wrist. He wants to flip his hand over and hold on to them. To not let go for the next year at least. But he can’t move his arm.

____

His arm’s tied down. Why?

____

He can’t turn it over. He tries to pull loose, but all of him feels  _so_  heavy. As he begins to tug, the hand at his wrist slips down to curl itself around his; palm to palm, familiar enough that he can guess its owner.

____

He opens his eyes back up. They’re all here. They’re real. They’re here and he can only marvel at it. Lance and Coran stand beside him. Hunk’s fingers are still carding through Shiro’s hair.

____

And he sees Keith. Crowding close, with a hand clutching his. Shiro tries to hold onto him tighter.

____

Allura  _hmm_ s quietly, standing with four shapes perched on her shoulders, which he thinks are her little mice, and Pidge half-burrowed into her side. Allura holds her close with one hand, while the other rests lightly atop Keith’s shoulder.

____

Keeping them close. Keeping all of them safe. Shiro’s throat shuts tighter and he feels himself smile. Allura’s face won’t swim into proper focus, but he tries to catch her eye, wishes he had the wherewithal to thank her.

____

He can’t articulate how good it is to see all of them.

____

With every second he’s slowly waking up more. He notices they look awful. Pinched, pale. _Tired,_ they all look so tired. But they’re safe and they’re smiling. That’s enough. That’s everything, he shouldn’t be asking for more than that.

____

But he looks at Allura and he still tries to ask if she’ll release his hands. He hates being tied down. He tries to tug again, and Keith’s grip tightens. Solid, warm, and stronger than he can fight against. Soft, susurrant words offer comfort, and Hunk’s hand continues its steady path through his hair. Shiro leans in, he tries to press closer. He hates it, he hates being tied down. And if he wakes up much more, he knows the haze will clear and he’ll start to remember why that is. 

____

He opens his mouth to ask Allura please, untie him. Please, he doesn’t  _want_  to remember why he hates it. But instead, there’s a pinprick and a wash of cold at the crook of his elbow, and he’s fading before he can ask her please just untie his hands. The last quiet thought before he goes under, is that he knows just what he should be doing with them.

____

He knows what would be best.

____

____

 

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we see who was paying attention, back in Ch. 2...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sendak does not have a high opinion of these paladin people  
> Shiro, meanwhile, has no idea what's been going on around here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm so sorry. Excuseexcusereallifereallife, etc.  
> Chapter got stupidly huge, editing it into coherence would take FOREVER, so I'm divying it up.  
> First chunk: The FLUFF (perhaps before the storm?)

 

The walls were too smooth. Perfectly featureless, floor-to-ceiling, with neither indent, nor outcropping. In other words, _useless_. On the first night, Sendak had instead climbed into the soft bed on the floor, and tried to make it suffice. He did not succeed. He would drift for awhile, then he’d startle awake, half-cognizant and convinced he was about to be trod upon and crushed.

Wide awake, he’d sat, then he’d paced, then he’d sat again, left without any means of entertaining himself (no way to pass the time and no fitting place for a Galra to take rest; had the Alteans _always_ been barbarians?)

After the first night, he’d managed _some_ sleep; upright with his spine locked and his back to a corner. But not a great deal of it, and the lack _might_ have been starting to affect him.

Or perhaps he was just being held on board a ship full of primitive and/or hostile aliens, and his being on edge made perfect sense. He'd wager on the latter, but it might have been that he was already addled.

Sendak lay on the floor of his cell. Flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, trying to accustom himself to this idea being so _low_. By the by, he considered his hosts.

The Green Paladin, he’d decided, was… exactly as he’d remembered. An irritant. After all her hard work to evict him the first time he was here, he imagined it must burn at her to have him return. She wasn’t shy with her hostility, and passing time in her company had seen Sendak’s patience very much tested.

As a Paladin of Voltron, Sendak would work to preserve her, to the best of his ability (just as he would preserve any of them; they were too important to do otherwise). But as one being to another, it would be lying to say Sendak hadn’t fondly imagined taking her head from her shoulders.

Only once or twice.

In recent memory.

(Again, she was irritating.)

Earthlings, she made him think, must have some sort of mental deficiency. Similar to Alteans, some sort of block, regarding their interactions with hate, and the way that they clung to it.

Because hate was a tool. It was something to direct, not to be directed by. But not so, it would seem, for the Paladins of Voltron.

Anger still got the better of Sendak at times, but _scorn_ , he was adept at using. In his early days of service, when he was earning rank by means of thankless missions and sleepless nights, it had kept him sharp. He’d opened vendetta against every small-minded superior officer he’d ever had. And then he’d extorted its payment out of the empire’s enemies.

(The emperor had taught him this, and it made Sendak very effective. But the emperor was mad. Sendak wondered what that meant for his teachings?)

Did it always go so effortlessly? No, it did not, or Sendak wouldn’t have derived enjoyment out of watching the Black Paladin huddle and gasp on the ground. Similarly, it wouldn’t have been such a blow, learning that the vendetta Sendak had held with him had gone unreciprocated; that Shiro was too spineless to keep it in kind.

Sendak snapped up to his feet. He wondered for how long that knowledge was going to bother him.

In large part, Sendak saw his past with this crew as a failed transaction. He had wanted the Castle, they had wanted the Castle. They had succeeded, he had failed. The paladins, however, seemed to carry the encounter as a personal insult. Sendak had always known they’d likely kill him as soon as look at him, but he hadn’t realized they were so _emotional_ about it. Vindictiveness was not actually something he’d anticipated.

Acting against his better judgement, Sendak had brought them their Black Paladin. All that had earned him was this tiny cell. Captivity, not simply because they were cautious of him,

But because they hated him. And they had yet to master it (lower species had many such failings; if they’d not, the universe would never have needed any empire at all).

Sendak crossed his feet and leaned backwards until his shoulders _thump_ ed against the wall. Chuckling quietly, he decided he wasn’t being _quite_ fair. After all, they had not _yet_ jettisoned him into space (again). It could not be overstated, how very glad he was, to have _not_ been jettisoned into space (again).

So, perhaps there was still some hope for them, and their ability to see sense. But he wouldn’t wager on it coming from the Alteans, or the Green Paladin. Thankfully, Sendak spent the least amount of time with her. More with the yellow one (he might learn their given names at some point; but to ask might very well be considered an insult, and he was neither so presumptuous, nor so preoccupied with the answers).

The yellow would _talk_ to Sendak (remarkable), and in fact _had_ talked to Sendak at great length (myriad questions), yet had remained nigh impressively suspicious. Perhaps the most out of all of them. He wouldn’t space Sendak until given a reason (more than could be said for some of his fellows). But if that reason so much as _hinted_ itself, Sendak had no doubts he would be very dead, very quickly.

Pushing off from the wall, Sendak circled the perimeter of his cell again. Damned, but it _was_ tiny.

The blue one surprised him. During previous encounters, Sendak had barely so much as shared a room with him, when they had both simultaneously been awake. When first he’d arrived with Shiro in tow, the blue and the yellow had been assigned to be Sendak’s guards. The blue one had withdrawn, and Sendak had written him off as a coward.

And he’d had to revise that assessment, barely a day later, during that stressful time in the infirmary. It became very apparent that the Blue Paladin, first, found him intimidating, second, could put that feeling aside, and third, didn’t trust him.

But unlike the others, who clung to their ill-feelings like caregivers to kits, the Blue Paladin didn’t trust him simply because he’d yet to see why he should. And he seemed willing to address that fact, like a civilized being (in that regard, his grasp of professionalism was _staggeringly_ more adept than his fellows’). From the blue, there were no threats to Sendak’s person, there was no tiresomely constant glaring. The Blue Paladin simply hovered, unobtrusively attentive, his bayard at the ready. He engaged in conversation about this and that, sharp eyes flashing, as (Sendak had no doubt) he made careful note of Sendak’s measure.

He was nervous. Make no mistake, he was nervous, Sendak could smell it on him. But it didn’t keep him from clear-headed civility. Given his capacity for reason, he was far and away the most agreeable to share space with.

Sendak paced on his feet. Then he tipped forward, and took a few steps on his hands instead. He stood, upside down, just for want of anything better to do. Would that the paladin were here right now. Conversation would be preferable to solitary sleeplessness.

In all fairness, the Blue Paladin’s apparent ability to move beyond their history might have more to do with the prospect that, from the paladin’s end, there _was_ no history. He hadn’t been awake. Sendak hadn’t hunted him the way he’d hunted the green one. He hadn’t tortured him, the way he had Shiro.

Perhaps the blue one’s attitude was simply born of a lack of experience. Perhaps. Though, perhaps not. In which case, his level head was an asset to his team.

Personally, Sendak didn’t much care. Whatever the reason, the Blue Paladin seemed, far and away, the most rational of the bunch.

He stepped back up to his feet. And the red one. Least threatening of all of them, though not because he was particularly calm or reasonable (Sendak had observed him to be neither of those things). And not because he felt any kinship with Sendak (he’d made no mention of which family he was tied to, so out of respect, Sendak hadn’t broached the subject).

In a way, the red one was simpler. If the Blue Paladin had the best grasp of reason, then the red one certainly seemed to have the greatest capacity for detachment. At least towards Sendak.

Upon arrival, Sendak’s primary concern had been making sure no one shot him, but even so, he wasn’t blind enough to miss the startling degree of loyalty, no _fondness_ the Red Paladin seem to hold for the black.

When Sendak had given Shiro over, and Shiro had protested it, Sendak noticed something. To him, it hadn’t seemed very important – just a creature in pain, latching onto the closest source of possible security. But to the Red Paladin, who _must_ have been the black’s second, the delirious gesture may have been enough to stake some manner of claim (Sendak wrote that off as an Earth thing). Because thereafter, the Red Paladin made the switch from _most_ potentially lethal, to _least._ And he’d done it near-seamlessly.

Sendak could only assume therefore, that the Red Paladin simply didn’t care. Should Sendak live or die, the paladin found it all the same. Detachment. No personal stake in the slightest, he would wait and watch until Shiro (or circumstance) indicated to do otherwise. All told, it was somewhat unsettling, but it made sense at least. It was trustworthy. Sendak wouldn’t be harmed, if only because the Black Paladin wouldn’t want it.

(Try as he might, Sendak did not have the exact words for _why_ he was so certain of that last. Only that he was.)

 

***

 

Fixing Shiro up without the pods proved easier said than done. While the Alteans did have plenty of alternative means of healing, they were a bit less species-interchangeable. A dollop of a few different gels, and Allura’s hand was good as new, but Shiro’s not Altean (Coran theorized that the same compounds Allura had used could put him into cardiac arrest).

The alternative methods are messier, too. They need maintenance, they need _monitoring_ , they need semi-frequent micro-adjustments from either Allura or Coran. It’s disappointingly reminiscent of human medicine, to be perfectly honest.

Oh, leagues ahead of it, sure. Still. Disappointing.

The second morning after the pod spat Shiro out, Lance treks in to say hello. Mug in hand, with a dataslate clenched under his arm, he’s got the latest report he’s finished for Allura (along with Keith’s, Hunk’s, and Pidge’s, also). The infirmary’s quiet, aside from a low humming that seems to permeate the whole place. Lingering at the door, Lance takes a second to watch Allura glide between workstations, long fingers inputting commands at screens she calls up with a wave of one hand, then banishes with the other. She wears her hair up in a knot, like she often does, but it's falling down, halfway slipped out. If she were human, she’d probably have oily skin and bags under her eyes, and her hair would be a greasy mess of tangles.

But she’s not human, and it definitely shows. The loose strands of hair float behind her in a cloud, managing to look artful, and her eyes are bright like opals, same as usual. She doesn’t carry her strain in nearly as many places as a human would. Though, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t carry it. Subtler, in the tight set of her shoulders, and the way her head droops downward. And in a tiny little wrinkle between her eyebrows.

Lance taps a fist against the doorway. Allura turns and flashes him a tired smile.

“Morning, pretty lady,” he offers at half-volume. He steps forward, hand extended to offer her the cup he’s carrying.

She takes it, murmuring, “Hello, Lance. Thank you,” and she breathes deeply of the fragrant steam rising above the top. It’s one of Hunk’s pseudo-ciders. They’re a little too bitter for Lance’s tastes, a bit like someone poured coffee into fruit juice, but the princess loves them. “That was thoughtful,” she murmurs, and she takes a small sip, pausing briefly to savor it,

“How are you?”

Lance offers a shrug, a grin, and a thumbs-up, in that order. “You know. Same old. Training, practice… Keith still can’t shoot for God or money.” He trails off, hefting his reports under his arm. It enters his mind to just let her have her drink in peace… before he pulls the slate out with a flourish and waves it enticingly, right under Allura’s nose.

Her face twists into comical complaint, nose wrinkling up much too adorably to be serious. Turning to set the reports on a table, Lance notices another dataslate already there. One which – he winces in sympathy – is opened to content from the day before yesterday. Grinning unrepentantly, Lance plops the new slate down, right on top of the old, and grins at the frown it earns him.

Pidge’s crawlers turn up obscene amounts of raw data every day, and _no one_ gets to skip out on reading ( _wars are won from desks_ ; Lance doesn’t remember who first told him that). In a typical day, Lance spends as much time looking at specs and compiling reports, as he does training with his bayard. It feels like that, at least. It’s no fun, but it’s part of the job, if they ever want Voltron to graduate from _annoyance_ , to _threat_. The war machine won’t stop turning, just because Shiro’s down and Allura hasn’t slept. And with Sendak added into the mix, everyone’s been pulling extra weight (with minimal complaining, Lance might add).

It’s a strain. It wouldn’t be sustainable in the long run, but so far it’s holding well enough.

Speaking of which – Lance inclines his head towards Shiro – “How’s it going in here?”

As ethereally, inhumanely gorgeous as Allura looks for having stayed up all night, Shiro more than makes up for it. Passed out, sunken-eyed with lines hooked up to him, Shiro is looking human enough to make Lance’s heart hurt. Trying not to notice how _small_ he seems, Lance watches his chest move up and down for a bit, before feeling awkward and looking away.

“Well,” Allura steps up to hits left, “I had a little surprise earlier, but it’s under control.”

A tiny kernel of worry rustles through the morning quiet, Lance quirks an eyebrow in question.

Allura sets her cup aside. She lifts Shiro’s arm, reaching under it to take hold of the sheet draped over him. Her movements are so careful, Shiro might still have slept through them, even were he not doped to the gills (which, sad but true, he totally is). Allura carefully folds back both drape, and the soft suit underneath, and reaches down to the padded wrap covering his side. Gently, she peels it away, displaying the sticky remnants of a lurid orange ointment that smells like gooseberries, and the bruising that still– 

He goes stark still, rapidly reconsidering his decision to eat breakfast. Not bruising.

Definitely not bruising.

“I lanced it open and drained it, earlier. And trimmed back the decay. All told, it’s not terribly deep. And we’ll keep an eye on it, but hopefully–”

After the initial shock fades, Lance’s heart relaxes back down out of his throat, and he can look closer. Growing up, he had been the dispenser of bandaids and hydrogen peroxide (and dental floss stitches, one time, but that’s another story) often enough that a little blood doesn’t bother him.

Of course, this isn’t exactly a broken tooth or skinned shins. Where before, there had been dark discoloration wrapping around Shiro’s side, now there are long, _wide_ -open lacerations. Shiny, swollen, following the original clawmarks.

Realizing he’s looking at aftermath, Lance bites the bullet. “Drained it?” Later, he’ll kick himself for the vulnerable way his voice squeaks. He’ll blame it on the morning (Lance hates mornings, even after training wakes him up a bit).

“Yes. Until it ran red.” Allura turns to him, seeming edgy. “It was necrotic, it… was causing Shiro a great deal of distress, so I didn’t wait.”

The mental image of Allura, bloodied up to her elbows suddenly flashes through his head, where it does not sit well. “The pressure built up was quite… substantial. When I first opened it–” Lance kind of doesn’t need to hear that. At all, and fortunately, Allura cuts herself off.

Less fortunately, she neglects to abort her accompanying handmotions (translations for which include _ka-blam_ and _splat_ ).

“I… see.” And this just _happened?_

She goes on, “The purulence was green and yellow and white. The… smell was noteworthy.” _Why,_ Lance would like to ask, is she describing it? “But as I said, I drained that all off. Until it ran only red, clean blood.”

Amidst her explanation, Allura’s shoulders have been inching up towards her ears. Initially, her voice was cool, sort of clinical. Detached. But it’s turned tense, and as she finishes, she starts looking a little defensive. “If you think I should have done differently, please speak up. I’ve read through all the data we have on you Earthlings, I wouldn’t have hurt him. But it was paining him terribly, so I didn’t wait. I had assistance; I wasn’t just down here in the dark by myself, cutting holes into him.”

Finally getting it, Lance scrambles to backtrack. “No, no, no, that’s- No, I’m sure you did great.” He swallows down the brackish taste in his mouth. Quiznak, she thinks he’s judging? He’s impressed as _fuck,_ “I don’t… I mean, you did the right thing as far as I can tell…”

He turns to Shiro, as if the poor guy might please wake up and take this conversation off Lance’s hands. Shiro does no such thing. “And hey, I mean, if he healed over an infection, then you really didn’t have much choice, right?”

Allura’s shoulders have slowly edged back down, but at that, she looks confused. “No… No, the wound is perfectly sterile.” She squints at him, speaking slowly, like Lance just said something dumb. Lance wills the blush off his face, he didn’t _think_ he said anything dumb. It’s too early in the morning. Was there reading for this?, he may have forgotten to do the reading, Hunk usually _tells_ him if there’s reading he’s forgetting.

“There are no bacteria, no–” Allura considers, “ _physical_ toxins. I’ve told you, quintessence fuels every part of you. A quintessence-mediated injury can manifest in hundreds of different ways. Inflammation is just a commonality.”

Hundreds of different ways, but they got stuck with _flesh-eating?_ Lance kind of wonders why they couldn’t get the… neon green polka-dots kind of poison? Seems unfair.

Suitably evil, though. Suitably Galra-ish, Lance nods sagely. Picturing Shiro with acid green chicken pox makes him feel incrementally better.

Allura turns with a flourish, loose hair swishing, and Lance gets a whiff of some kind of flower. “But for quintessence-related injuries,” she taps the top of a clear cylinder, “there are quintessence-based remedies.” It glows gold, reminding him of the tanks he’d seen on Keith’s feed, when they were at the hub ( _Space Base,_ thank you). “Now that it’s cleaned out, this should keep it from progressing.” She gives Lance a kind smile, “And hopefully help him heal himself, much, much faster.”

Lance reaches out a tentative hand, lightly placing it against Shiro’s side, a few inches from the injury. The skin is warm and swollen, but honestly not as hot as Lance might have worried. He doesn’t have anything to compare it to (not that he’s complaining), but maybe it’s getting better. Still hard to believe it’s not full of bacteria.

Lance barely touches him, but Shiro chooses that moment to stir. His face tenses. A low moan bubbles out of his chest. Feeling Shiro’s side tremble under his fingertips, Lance yanks his hand back like he’s just touched a hot stove. “Shiro?”

But aside from to shudder and close his hands into fists, Shiro doesn’t do anything else. He doesn’t relax, but he doesn’t seem to step any closer to consciousness either.

Allura places a hand on Lance’s arm ( _not_ making him jump), “He won’t wake, don’t worry,” and Lance nods, both relieved and a little disappointed.

Allura gives his arm a squeeze. “Wait, just a tick.” She opens a bottle and starts smoothing more of the orange berry-flavored what’sit all over and into the wound. Absently, Lance notes she hasn’t washed her hands… But he stays mum. What’s he know, anyway? Did he know that a “quintessence” injury could turn from glowing to bruising to skin-sloughing to whatever? Nope. No he did not.

And before coming here, would he have put money on “quintessence” (Qi? Life-force? Vibes? Mojo? Chakras?) even being a thing? Nope, no he would not. What’s he know? What the actual quiznak does Lance know?

A gentle chill whispers along his mind. A breath of Blue laughing at him.

Allura does her work, and Shiro’s face slowly smooths over. His teeth unclench and his head lolls off to the side, lips slightly parted as he breathes just heavy enough to flutter the scrunched edge of a sheet.

Quietly, Lance asks, “Was that my fault?”

Allura turns to him, eyes soft. “ _No,_ no, not at all. Look here.” She holds up her hand, displaying the orange gel on her fingertips. “Keeps the area numb. Slightly accelerates healing too. He was just due for more. _Not_ your fault at all, Lance.”

Lance stuffs his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. He jerks his head in a small nod and backs away. That makes sense, that makes way more sense. He feels kind of stupid now. Loudly clearing his throat, Lance turns left and right, searching for something else to pay attention to, and his eyes happen to alight on Shiro’s face.

He’s going to wake up with a _really_ sore neck, if he sleeps with his head twisted like that. Emboldened by Allura’s not-quite-creepy promise of Shiro remaining dead-to-the-world, Lance places both hands along the base of Shiro’s skull, carefully adjusting his head to straighten his neck back out. “There you go,” and he smooths Shiro’s bangs out of his face.

Catching Allura’s smile, Lance quickly clears his throat again, and offers his gruffest “Feel better, dude.” He gives Shiro a manful, comradely pat on the sternum and steps back. For a half-second, Lance is back at the Garrison, fragile teenage dignity smarting because a peer caught him being _nice_ to someone.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling embarrassed over feeling embarrassed. And feeling _more_ embarrassed because hadn’t he been trying to take attention _away_ from his original awkwardness?

Lance hates mornings.

Blue laughs again.

Allura finishes her work and tucks the ugliness safely back out of sight, under soft cream-colored sheets. Then she lays a comforting hand across Lance’s shoulders, and offers a conspiratorial smile and wink. A little reminder that she’s had his number since Day 1. She saw him giggle over his first Arusian, she helped him find his yarn substitute, honestly he’s being a bit of dope here, trying to pretend he’s ever been anything but a big, gooey fluffbucket.

Offering her a return smile, it occurs to Lance that Allura’s been doing a lot of that lately. Comforting. Supporting. Holding them all up, even more than she normally does, since Shiro isn’t currently splitting the weight.

“Lance, I’m… going to have this talk with everyone but,” the smile melts into something more serious. She picks her mug back up, hitching a hip up on the bed, next to Shiro. “Galra magic is… strange. I don’t,” she bites the edge of her lip, spreads her arms, shrugging, “I don’t know explicitly _what_ was done to him, and I can’t be certain of what’s to come. He could clear this and make a full recovery. Or any number of other things could happen. It could go to his spine, he might not be able to walk. It could settle in his mind, and he…” they could have repeat episodes of before. Lance digests that for a few seconds. He straightens up out of his slouch, nodding for Allura to continue.

“You should just be aware of that. It is possible, that his recovery may not be complete. This could leave him different. I don’t _think_ that it… But it could.”

Lance looks down to find Shiro’s large hand, resting between his own. He’s not sure how that got there. _Wuss,_ he chides himself, then holds a little bit tighter.

“But,” suddenly smiling like sunshine through clouds, she gestures towards a tangle of readouts. “Given the information I have,” – after the sobriety of two seconds ago, it almost seems obnoxious. Maybe if it weren’t Allura – “What I see makes me cautiously optimistic.”

“Yeah?” he smiles back. Strangely, Lance wishes, just for a second, that he were young enough to ask her, _Promise?_ The hand he’s holding is awfully cold.

“Yeah.” Allura does him the service of looking him dead in the eye, because no, he’s not a kid. “I wanted to talk to you about it, just in case. But truthfully,” she looks and she doesn’t blink. “Truthfully, I think he should be just fine.”

A few days later, when Shiro wakes up smiling, Lance thinks they’ve dodged a bullet.

 

***

 

He draws his fist back, coated in stinking, sizzling ichor. Then he stumbles and his back hits the ground. Like his legs were cut off, he goes down and he stays there.

He’s still breathing, so he wins. He’s

 _Done_. Another fight done, and the white-hot rush ends in a crash. And with the high fading, he realizes

He’s hurt

He’s _too_ hurt. Breathing sends pain stabbing up underneath his ribs, he can _see_ his ribs and oh, he’s really done it this time

He won but he’s dying

And they can _all_ see it.

He wasn’t scared before. Blood-flecked, ferocious, he’d grinned up at them because it was marvelous not to be scared, even just for a second. Now

_Wait! No wait I’m_

fear runs cold and he tries to beg for his life.

_Wait, look_

Everything he’s done wasn’t to die like this. Every godawful thing, it wasn’t just for this. He won! See? He won. Tears stream down his face; he chokes, tries again

_I’m alive!_

_I’m still alive! Wait_

Blood runs from his mouth, boiling hot

_Don’t write me off_

but he can’t cough it out fast enough. His head thumps down in the dust and they leer at him, bored with watching him suffocate. Waiting for it to be over. Everything he’s done. Just to wait here for it to be over.

He wishes he were home. He wishes he’d never 

Sentries amble forward, rifles at the ready.

He wishes

“Hold!”

He wishes.

 

Shiro’s eyes click open.

And then click shut because he has a headache like Day 5 of a woods fest. Is that where he is? Probably. He lets out a whimper, hoping it doesn't sound as pathetic as he feels. Whatever dough he’s replaced his brain with, there’s definitely an imprint in it. Blasting noise, flashing light, and chemically altered consciousness.

Which now calls for water, quiet dark, and preferably an oxygen mask, if at all possible. Perhaps not in that order. But with the way Shiro’s head’s spinning, he’d be lucky just to find just one of those things, even with two hands and a map.

“–told you. Just like with the pods, there he is. Shiro? Hello? Are you awake?”

He’s on his back, propped up. Rolling over to faceplant in his pillow and wait for death seems like a stupendous idea. Only thing stopping him is that he seems to weigh about a million tons.

“Shiro?” The proximity of the noise makes him flinch. But, _Keith?_ Is that Keith? _Hehe, nice,_ Shiro _said_ that he would get him to come out to one of these, someday. Shiro thinks of asking him something funny. _How many smells are you hearing?_ or something stupid like that. He’ll ask, just as soon as he can unscramble the words in his mouth.

“Just a tick Shiro, hold on.” Who… but what’s the princess doing here?

His headache tells him that he _should_ be in a tent outside town, buried under a pile of kite-flying semi-strangers, catching just enough Zzz to keep the rage going. But Princess Allura being at a music fest registers as something that’s impossible. And that just sticks his poor brain in a zorb ball and rolls it down a hill.

Shiro needs a drink. Of _water_ , that is. And quiet. And an oxygen mask.

Did he say that already? Fuck, why’s he go to these things, again? Why does he do this to himself?

Except _right,_ he didn’t do it. Not this time. He can’t have, not if the princess is here.

A strong but narrow shoulder maneuvers its way under his head, easily lifting him upright, where a straw pokes against his mouth. The water is cold enough to make his teeth tingle. He’s a little confused at the unreasonably gentle handling. But hey, _water_. He’s 1 for 3. And thank fuck for that, because there’s a fuzzy, flakey snakeskin where the inside of his mouth used to be.

Wait, there aren’t snakes around here, are there?

“Better, right?” Allura chirrups in his ear. Truth be told, the cold water makes his headache worse. But he’s got a basic biological need going on here, and his lizard brain keeps right on happily slurping, regardless that the monkey whines about the hurt.

And the snakes. Weren’t there snakes?

Someone takes his water away before he’s finished. _Bastard._ He thinks of biting them, only he’s too slow.

But even too-soon gone, the water’s like a new lease on life. His tongue un-shrivels enough to peel it off the floor of his mouth, and he gets up the gumption to open his eyes. At least to half-mast. Just enough to see, without being completely blinded.

Oh. No snakes here, he’s in the Castle. Haggar, he remembers Haggar had him, he was on a ship with her. But this is the Castle. _Safe, secure, elegant, clean and far, far, far away from her_ – these are all the things that mean the Castle.

And certainly no snakes.

Whatever else he’d been thinking fades like a dream. Why, he wonders, are the others looking at him like that?

It’s a moment or so, then he remembers. He was gone. He was caught. And he was sick. He didn’t earn the hangover he has. He’d been really sick.

He'd scared them.

“Hey guys,” his smile makes a warm, drowsy sojourn across his face. And they light up, right back at him. “Fancy seeing–” he breaks off with a cough. He’d like to WD-40 his voice, if that were a doable thing. Try again, “The hell you doing here?”

That earns him cracked laughter, like secretly, he’s just made the _funniest_ joke, but told it to a bunch of dead people.

But he’ll call it a win.

And, to no surprise, there are suddenly bodies all over him. Warm weight; a nest of sharp elbows and strong arms, reaching to bracket him on all sides. Pulled halfway into a hug (ever so gently), patted on the back (ever so lightly), dogpiled on top of (ever so carefully) by the collective relief of four subadult humans. Headache be damned, Shiro laughs into the mess and lets himself abide.

Haggar had him. What did he say to her? She despised him. Pidge scrubs a rough hand through Shiro’s hair, rocking his head. “Wasn’t worried for a second.” Crawled practically right up onto his lap, she makes an exaggerated face at the grease now coating her fingers. Magnanimously, she doesn’t comment on when he last showered.

“Me neither.” Lance hooks an elbow over her shoulder, leans in close. “Knew you had this.”

“Well, I was.” And Shiro’s drawn up to where Hunk’s smile is running a tad dimmer than it should.

Hunk doesn’t wait, but wraps him up in a hug, and Shiro squishes his appreciative smile into a warm, solid shoulder. Half-muffled, he gripes, “Have _some_ faith in me.” There’s a chiding whisper in the back of his head, reminding him of his track record (his stupid ass gets into trouble more often than anybody). Shiro tells that voice to wait its damn turn, and enjoys his hug.

It’s a pretty good hug, as those things go. Shiro isn’t accustomed to being the tinier party in any given embrace, but he could stay like this for awhile.

But Hunk eventually leans back and they all start talking about this, that, and the other. He’s pointedly redirected, whenever he tries to ask for status updates or anything of the like. The closest anyone comes to indulging him is Coran, and he just gives Shiro the runaround by waxing jargon.

Asking how much time has passed earns an answer, but it’s coupled with an honest-to-God headpat. From Pidge, of all people, delivered with a grin just shy of shit-eating. She’s probably banking on him falling back asleep and forgetting all about it.

It annoys him that he can’t properly give Keith a shove, or mess up Lance’s hair. Or swat Pidge’s hand. He supposes he _could_ , if he really wanted to put the energy in. But why bother? Their chatter washes over him in warm waves, he thinks maybe he  _will_ fall asleep and prove them right.

But for whatever reason, it doesn’t happen. He listens to them, missing every fifth word or so, but he doesn’t drift. He thinks he prefers this. He’d rather hear them than waste his time sleeping. Sharp-fingered hands had held his head like a vice what did he do? What did she learn from him what did she take? Or did he give it instead?

He wonders, did he give to her? She knew him.

But he’s… he–

He’s way too tired for any shit like that, so he just shuts both eyes against it. He’ll think of her some other time. Leaning on the steady support of Allura, he listens to his team, soaking up the delightful sensations of warmth and unmitigated calm. And an easy, heavy sort of peace, welling up from someplace he doesn’t quite recognize.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me my 'Galra like to sleep in high places' headcanon :P  
> Also I KNOW!! I KNOW this chapter was a littler quieter/less action-y. Bear with me, just for a bit.  
> The next chapter (aka some action-y follow-though, for this chapter's setup) should hopefully be up much, much faster(?) Please feel free to leave a little comment (they're pretty much what's keeping this thing going, hehe)
> 
> EDIT: Okay, I'm being a piece of shit, I know. Your comments were wonderful, I've read and had an aneurysm over every single one of them. Thank you so very, very much.  
> I'm taking the STEP1 on June 19. It's the 3rd most difficult exam offered in the U.S., its the single biggest determinant of my future, and (making it uniquely lousy) if I screw it up, I won't get a second chance to take it again and improve my score. I've been studying and taking practice tests and as it is right now, I'm just not improving fast enough.I've GOT to buckle down and focus.  
> I haven't forgotten this fic. I've not yet been able to respond to all your comments, but I definitely haven't forgotten them! (Tbh, I still haven't calmed down from reading (and re-reading :3) them, they were wonderful!) When STEP is over, stg, that'll be a different story! Please bear with me, and thank you so much for your patience!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith wraps up the pals (for now)  
> Sendak makes it his solemn duty to dispense good sense  
> Shiro deserves better, and literally nothing works right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SassafrassRex, total POS, reporting in. Uh... hi guys. Anyone still here? So terribly sorry.  
> Anyway, STEP is over *throws confetti* I have some comments I haven’t replied to. I think I got to one, like a month ago, then sort of faceplanted before I could manage the others. But weighing the decision, I figured that (if you’re still here) you’d rather have a chapter now, instead of waiting for it, until I’d replied to all the comments from last time. So, in one fell swoop: thank you, guys! Thank you for beautiful comments, they made me SO, so happy. Ricochet, yours in particular was _exactly_ what I needed to hear. Thank you. (For this chapter and thereafter, it should be back to my usual reply scheme.)  
>  Keith’s wrapping up the current paladin interlude, I can finally get back to writing Sendak for a little while. (I love the Pals’ POVs but, *clenches fist*I’m just so much more at home, writing jackasses. Don’t nobody analyze that too closely, just _que sera, sera_ )  
> Second-to-final thing: This chapter, the previous chapter, AND the next chapter... are all actually one chapter. And I did it all wrong, when I was breaking them apart. The first two sections here should have gone at the backend of the last chapter. And it’s all a mess and *flails hands* I made it work as well as I could. But they all go together (which is one more reason I’m an ass for so taking so long in between posting. (Have I said I’m sorry?))  
> Final thing – I have a... complicated relationship with italics. One that is still in flux, hehehe. So, some flashbacks will get italics, some won’t. Some dreams will get them, some won’t. I honestly haven’t figured it out yet...  
> Moving on. Longish chapter is longish.

 

 

Keith taps his foot impatiently. It’s late in the evening, they just finished with dinner. It’s the first night Shiro gets to spend in his own bed (something Shiro doesn’t seem to anticipate _half_ as much as the prospect of a shower, judging from the bellyaching). Keith and Lance brushed all the dust off his room, and now patiently wait (patiently in Lance’s case) for Coran to finish up, and give Shiro the go-ahead to leave. Do both of them need to be here? Nope, not remotely. Yet, here they are, neither apologizing.

While Coran works, Keith keeps to his foot-tapping. And messes around with whatever’s in reach of his hands. Two sheets get folded, in less time than it takes Coran to unhook most of his contraptions and double-check his readouts.

“Ready to sleep in your own room?” Lance waggles an eyebrow up and down.

Keith tries for a smirk, tacking on, “Or just _sleep?_ ” The infirmary is exactly as relaxing as one would expect, which is to say _not very._ Keith would bet money that Shiro’s slept one hour out of every three he was supposed to.

Shiro’s gives a shrug. “Eh. Could take or leave the room. Not sure there’s much difference.” There’s no bitterness when he says it. His voice is gravelly, but that’s just from his being sick. And Keith supposes it’s a fair assessment. Shiro and sleep have always had a complicated relationship (if he remembers right, that was even true, pre-Galra).

Subtly, he grabs something else to fold. But instead, he winds up twisting an edge of fabric between his fingers.

Shiro sits upright, slouched with his arms braced and his elbows locked, while Coran netters back and forth. He gets stuck with not one, not two, but three needles (and Alteans definitely _do not_ measure gage the same way Earth does, because those needles are _huge_ ; there are already bruises forming). Only one of them is actually delivering anything pharmaceutical. The other two are hooked to… actually, if Keith’s perfectly honest, the instrument looks more like a voltmeter than anything else.

Shiro bears it all with good grace. Keith can make out a flush still spread high on his cheeks and dark circles under his eyes.

“That should do,” and Coran steps back, hands planted on his hips. “Be aware, you’re not quite done yet. That,” he jerks his chin down at Shiro’s side, “is fragile like flimsheet, right now. You don’t take it easy, and it’ll rip right open.” He punctuates that statement with hand motions and an unsettling amount of cheer.

“Keep it clean. We’ll check on it in a couple days, make sure you haven’t turned septic on us.” Coran has always been one for odd tonal choices. Lance has mentioned how he’d once heard him speak fondly (nostalgically, even) of Altean meteor showers. Rocks raining out of the sky, liable to perforate heads.

But that’s just Coran (you get used to him).

Turning away, the man in question starts getting his supplies back into order. “Need any help?” he aims back at Shiro, over his shoulder.

Shiro smiles, carefully hiking himself up to his feet. He grabs his shirt up off the table, then waggles a finger between Keith and Lance. “Somehow, I think I’m all set.”

Lance fills the silence as they slowly amble in the direction of Shiro’s room. Shiro keeps a hand on Keith’s shoulder but only needs to catch his balance once or twice. Keith mutters, “Sorry,” every time he walks too fast or too slow.

He’s overreacting, he knows. Overcompensating; he’s probably making this really uncomfortable. But Shiro matches his every “Sorry,” with a murmured “Don’t worry about it.” And then Lance picks right back up talking, saving them from any awkwardness. Shiro holds onto him, fingers warm and heavy on his shoulder, and Keith tries to figure out what to do with his own too-nervous hands.

Despite what he’d said about a shower, Shiro’s eyelids are droopy by the time they get to his room. And despite what he’d said about it not making a difference, nobody misses his smile when he catches sight of his own turned-down sheets. “Full service,” Lance jokes, while Keith’s lips are pressed together too tightly to give a smile himself.

Helping Shiro down onto the bed (probably 100% unnecessary), Keith starts to fuss around with the blankets. It isn’t until Shiro lightly grabs his wrist–“Hey,”–that Keith finally notices his hands have been shaking.

He closes them into fists, for all the good that does. And his eyes jerk up to where Shiro’s watching him. “You okay?” There’s a knowing half-smile on Shiro’s face, which _should_ be helping Keith keep his hands still, but isn’t.

“Sorry.” Keith looks down. “Sorry. ‘M sorry.” He hasn’t said that yet, even if now isn’t really the time. But if they’d been faster. If Shiro had had backup. If he hadn’t been caught. “Really, I’m… sorry.” Keith licks his lips, hoping he isn’t about to start babbling. He should have said all this earlier. “Just. You know? For this, I mean, for all this. Just–”

“Keith,” Shiro interrupts him. He tucks his hand up around the back of Keith’s neck. It’s still too hot, evidence of a fight Shiro’s body hasn’t quite won yet. “Stop.”

Keith looks away, blinking. He’s not usually like this with Shiro. He’s _never_ like this, where Lance can see him. He's usually in control. Or at least he's not a slowly snowballing catastrophe, like he’s about to be if he doesn’t _stop_ this before it starts. He’s wound up like a spring. Shiro being gone, showing up with _Sendak_ of all people. Keith listened to his head hit the floor, Keith watched his eyes quit blinking. How he thrashed around, like he was infuriated with them. How he burned Allura.

That happened because they weren’t there. They’re a team, Voltron is a team, but Shiro got captured alone. Keith wasn’t there.

And that’s been a knot, nestled into the base of his skull, waiting for a chance to burst open.

(What if it’s Lance next time? Allura’s been caught, Shiro’s been caught. What if it’s Hunk? What if it’s Pidge? How does he _stop_ it?)

But it needs to wait longer. Keith wills himself to get his shit back under control. Lance’s hand joins Shiro’s, resting high on his back, and Keith figures he’s probably the most pathetic thing either one has ever seen. “Sorry,” he repeats, unable to think of anything else. His voice doesn’t crack, and he’d prefer to claim that it doesn’t waver either.

“Keith,” Shiro ducks down to meet his eye. “You know it wasn’t your fault.” Said in the frank tone Shiro used to use when Keith was being a bit stupid. The one that means he won’t be tolerating any arguments. Shiro’s eyes flick up to Lance, “None of you.”

Keith would really like to kick his own ass out of this room, why’s he doing this now? He carefully doesn’t blink, lest doing so squeeze out the tears that absolutely shouldn’t be gathering.

Hand still on his neck, Shiro shakes him lightly and pulls him closer. Keith can see how glossy his eyes still are. “Keith, don’t.” He doesn’t really want to meet them. “Don’t, okay? It’s not yours. Put it back down.”

 _Put it down,_ he says to himself. Maybe he can. Or maybe he can’t, that’s not how he functions. Shiro says again, it’s not his fault. He doesn’t say anything else, he doesn’t try to logic Keith around to his way of thinking. Just as well. Keith knows his own brain and the damn thing would just use that as an excuse to rationalize its way straight to hell. Shiro says it's not his fault. Repeats it, and Keith tries to be patient with himself. The more he rushes, the worse he’ll get. _Patience._

It isn’t his. He carries enough, just put it down.

Keith stops thinking about it. He focuses on Shiro’s hand on the back of his neck, isolates the exact positioning of each of his fingers – one – two – three – four – five of them. Then does the same for Lance, one – two – three – four – five of them.

Keith takes in a single deep breath, letting it be the one to wrap this shit up. He lets that breath out. And there it is: _patience._

Lance and Shiro let him sit a little while longer. Lance squeezes his shoulder and Shiro pulls him in for just a second, resting the crown of his head against Keith’s.

He thinks he hears Shiro’s breath stutter a bit. Well, _good_. Keith didn’t want to be the only one.

He waits until waiting any longer feels too selfish. Then he shuffles up to his feet. Shiro waves them both out, warning them to get some rest because training tomorrow – he promises with a wink and a smirk – is going to be hell.

Lance lingers in the doorway a second longer than Keith does, like he has something else to say. But ultimately, he just raises a hand and offers Shiro a goodnight.

On their way to their own rooms, Lance fills the silence again, making no mention of Keith’s little _spell._ Not for the first time, it occurs to Keith that having Lance for a friend is probably one of the best things he’s gotten out of this whole Voltron deal.

(What if Lance ever gets caught? What does he do then?)

He listens to the chatter, checking in enough to catch about every third concept or so. It’s both a little loud and a little bereft of insults, Keith wonders if Lance is worried about something. Well, something in particular at least (when aren't there things to worry about?)

When they reach Keith’s door, Lance starts to say something, then aborts it.

(What if next time it’s Pidge? What if it’s Hunk? They are seven people, against an empire.)

Lance lightly claps a hand on his back and says goodnight. He _does_ seem a little worried. Keith pulls himself out of his own thoughts long enough to notice it, but Lance is already turned around and heading off. Keith tosses a “Night,” after him, and goes inside. Lance has a way of noticing things. And noticing people. Whatever it is, Keith will have to ask him about it tomorrow.

He sits on his bed, and he adds that to his list. He pulls his knife out, for something to do with his hands. He’ll talk to Lance. He’ll keep half an eye on Shiro (nothing new there; Keith’s been doing that ever since he found him again). While he’s at it, he should probably check in with Allura too. Much as she tries to keep it quiet, having Sendak nearby is _really_ bugging her.

(They’re seven people, they need help so badly.)

And maybe after that. Maybe, if there’s still time, after the others…

Quietly, Keith spins the blade from hand to hand. For the ten thousandth time, he pulls the rag off the sigil and looks at it, just in case it jogs some sort of memory. It doesn’t.

Keith isn’t on duty with Sendak for another three days. That’s soon enough, he can ask him then.

In the meantime, he’d better try for some sleep. If Shiro’s planning to make up for lost time, tomorrow really _will_ be hell.

 

***

 

The first day-and-a-half of Shiro’s provisional release back into the real world go fairly well. On the first morning, he makes good on his promise. A long, Coran-enforced 48 hours separate him from some-but-not-all of conditioning, but that doesn’t protect the others. He makes a show of being horrified to hear the they’ve slacked off in the last few days (making no mention of all the other extra duties they’ve suddenly had to juggle; making _less_ than no mention of the fact that that’s his fault).

During the third circuit, Pidge stops, mid-pushup, to scream, “ _Why_ did I ever miss you?” before dramatically collapsing, flat on her face.

She’s back up and going again, faster than Shiro can get after her for it. But it breaks a bit of ice, gets a laugh from everybody. And thankfully, it sets the tone for the rest of the morning.

They hit a bit of a snag, later on, when he doesn’t follow them to their Lions. But he waves them off, tells them he’ll be observing with the princess.

And _that_ , sadly, is what characterizes the rest of Shiro’s first few days out of the infirmary: fielding.

Fielding questions. A hundred times, during Day 1 alone, he affirms that that _yes_ , he’s fine, _yes_ , he’s thinking clearly, _yes_ , he does believe the worst is over. And yet, the too-hard mouths don’t soften, too-serious eyes inform him that they aren’t yet convinced.

It’s understandable, so he stows his complaints. Anyway it’s only happening because he was idiot enough to get himself caught.

But if he’s honest, he thinks they’re worrying over nothing. That may sound odd, but it’s the truth. He’s doing alright. The wound hasn’t needed to be drained again. It’s healing well enough. Not like it would in a pod, but still much faster than human medicine could ever manage.

His sleep’s not great. Water is also wet. And anyway, having pain flare up every time he rolls over will do that to a person. He doesn’t worry about it.

He’s had a bit of trouble focusing, but he figures it’s just his body recalibrating after the stress it was put through. He doesn’t worry about it.

A couple dizzy spells, but then, that’s bound to happen. He just takes care to walk with a wall inside arm’s reach. It’ll fade.

As for what happened to him. Well, was it pleasant, being interrogated? No, it was not. Did he _like_ having her see him and know him, and the whole time he could only–

But.

He’s doing alright now. Not perfect, but he’s working at it. He’s taking care of himself, he has goals he’s working towards, he isn’t in a crisis. He’s dealing. What happened to him, happened.

But now it’s over, and he has things he needs to do. There’s a lot depending on him. And it’s not like he’s never been caught by the Galra before, is it?

He’s doing alright. If anything, it’s odd, just how well he’s doing. Maybe, on some level, he’s waiting for the other boot to drop and the Black Lion’s teeth to sheer through his skin and for every damn thing to come crashing down around his ears

But no. No, he’s not too worried. He’s just taking things, one day at a time.

 

***

 

He breathes out blood, he breathes in dust.

The rush fades. Again. Leaves his head buzzing.

Again and again. He’s quit waiting for it to just be over. Eventually, he figured out that it won’t

A foot nudges up under his stomach. One strong shove rolls him onto his back. He breathes out blood, he breathes in more.

Long spider-thin hands grab under his arms to drag him out. He’s hauled up onto a table.

Again. There’s always an again. And it hurts, it hurts very much.

His head lolls like it aims to roll off his neck. Fingers pry his mouth open and a tube is forced in. The sharp edge catches the lining of his throat and something in him tears.

He hears a voice rasping. Metal on metal.

His body notifies him that he’s cold. He hurts very much. He is tired. He cannot breathe.

A dozen such self-important memos come sprinting into his brain, where he adds them to the pile. _Yes. Yes, I know._

He lies still, and

waits for it to never be over

 

Shiro’s head lifts up off his chest. He blinks, wondering where he is.

Drowsy, he looks around, vertiginous in the semi-dark. Shiro ponders his condition. He’s kneeling. There is a wall to his right. More hazy details flood in, until the hypnopompic cedes ground to the waking.

It’s late at night, if judging from the dim lights. But it’s _very_ late at night, if judging from the ache in his back. He must have been sitting here for some time. Did he fall asleep? He remembers he left his room to go walking. Had he just… gotten tired and sat down?

Climbing to his feet sets off a symphony of creaking and crackling joints. And for four very long minutes, his entire world narrows to the simple task of standing up, so as to incur the minimum amount of pain. He moves like an old man – cautious, halting, ever-leery of his body turning on him and fracturing itself to pieces. But that’s just life, these days. At some point when he wasn’t looking, Shiro’s time in the arena replaced all his joints with those of an arthritic octogenarian (that’ll happen, after a few too many sprained ankles and dislocated knees, with too little downtime in between).

This was awfully careless of him, falling asleep here like he did. Walking it off is going to take all night. He knows his body better than to sit still long enough to go cold. It’s weird, he thinks, that he would just sit down like that.

Gingerly straightening the rest of the way up, he acknowledges the familiar sensation of an icepick, lodging in between his lumbar vertebrae. More of them at his shoulders. And knees. And ankles. Rude, rakefire sons of bitches, not something he’ll ever get used to. By the time he hits sixty, he’ll probably be confined to a wheelchair, and need his every joint replaced.

Of course, given the way his life is going, how likely is that to actually be a problem for him?

Shiro’s a silver-linings kind of person. Truly, he is.

Pain in his bones is normal, it’s the sharp tug under his ribs that takes his breath away. It’s what makes him shoot out a steadying hand to brace against the wall. Trying to breathe as light as he can, Shiro pauses for a moment, categorizing hurts. Pulling them apart like twine threads, until he can assess just _that_ one, by itself. He decides it’s better than it was. It’s healing, it’s just not quite there yet.

Rubbing grit out of his eyes, Shiro stumbles upon a revelation. He’s not tired. Oh, he’s sore, no doubt about that. But actually, he’s more restless than he's been in days.

It’s nice. Makes him feel a bit more like himself. _Well_ , he pushes off the wall,  _in the jingle-jangle morning,_ and he sets back out, wobbling, but only for the first couple steps. He walks with a bit of a smile, stiffness slowly retreating with every footfall.

 

***

 

The lights had since dimmed, and he’d been left for the night.

But, as per previous evenings, sleep was not forthcoming.

Times were, he would have been able to sleep anywhere, under nearly any circumstance, for any duration available. Too long away from the military had seen that skill atrophy.

Sendak paced his cell until mind-numbingly bored. He sat on the floor, contemplating the interior of his lodgings. His thoughts drifted. He plucked a few overlong hairs from the crook of his elbow.

But when he noticed fur starting to accumulate on the floor, he scrambled back up and paced again, resigning himself to doing it all night.

Sendak smelled him before he saw him. Not on purpose, but Sendak was rapidly growing familiar enough with his scent to be able to find him in a crowd. He turned with a frown, “What are you doing down here?”

It was the first he’d seen of Shiro in days. Slowly ambling up to his cell, Shiro folded his arms into a shrug. “We’ll say I was bored.”

Sendak stepped up close to his side of the barrier, casting an assessing eye up and down. Shiro stood with shoulders squared, with feet planted. Arms across his chest, with his head tilted forward, keeping his overlong neck tucked a little farther from reach. One eyebrow cocked upwards, watching Sendak watching him.

As posturing went, it was fairly decent. Had Sendak not paid witness to the last few days, he might have believed it.

But that was a talent to be expected, was it not? Given the particulars of Shiro’s history?

When Sendak had watched Champion in the arena, his behavior had followed one of two paradigms – either calm and shrewdly confident, or viciously eager, aggressive enough to startle. It was the latter, which had informed Sendak’s decision to wager on him.

As a rule, most smaller fighters _did_ tend to attack more vigorously, in an attempt to compensate for their weakness. But the terror didn’t leave them. Never. And, at one crucial point or another, they would flinch when they ought to have pressed. And then they’d go down, without fail.

As another rule, Sendak had held them in contempt. Not for their physical limitations, but for the mental – for that key instant when they gave themselves away as being still firmly under the thumb of their own fears. Weakminded, they were dull and predictable. He paid them little mind.

But then Champion came along, spitting mad and so rabidly unafraid as to make even Sendak sit up and take note.

His crew thought it ludicrous, but Sendak had always been an able eye for prospects. With a little time, he was proven right. The tiny alien from Earth bested every single opponent he faced. Until he eventually became so heavily favored that his odds weren’t worth playing.

How Sendak wished to have never laid eyes on him.

(It had proven quite the inconvenience, uprooting his life to the face the truth of an emperor unhinged, whose rule was aberration.)

 _We’ll say I was bored,_ Sendak had to smirk at that. Apparently, it was a common ailment onboard this ship. “Sleeping,” he flicked the word out, “addresses ennui.” _Among other things._ Because despite the way he held his head up, Shiro was still pale. And though he stood firm, Sendak could see the way that caution colored his movements.

“It does, yeah.”

Just enough caution to make lie of his confidence. And to hint towards a brittleness lingering half-healed (and _never mind_ that Sendak noticed it). And while Sendak had yet to establish just what Shiro’s scent was like when healthy, it probably wasn’t quite _this._

Truth be told, Sendak had thought he would be coming along better.

He took advantage of the lack of preamble. “Have you been seeing your Lion?”

Shiro blinked and paused, face twisting. Sendak waited,

“You know… I think I did a lot of it, before. Sleeping.” 

–And tapped a claw against his folded arms, logging away that answer.

“Back at the arena.” Shiro’s gaze drifted upwards, listing off to his right, as the words slid from his mouth. “Not a whole lot else to do, between matches. Training, eating, sleeping. As long as there was someone to keep watch–”

“Necessary,” Sendak picked up, “but never less trouble than it was worth.” Long missions had seen him sleep in many a strange place, under the watchful eye of many a strange being. Always a gamble, always a very delicate balance of trust. And always more nuisance than anything else.

Mouth twitching into a measured smile, Shiro nodded along, and they shared that between them. Commiserating over nothing important. Indulging a strangely open honesty, born of the lateness in the day.

And of how neither one particularly gave a damn what the other thought of him.

But Shiro aborted the genial atmosphere as quickly as he’d introduced it. “So, why aren’t you?”

Sendak frowned. “I’m among enemies, who I’ve still to determine won’t dump me into space.” Mildly, he added, “Again.”

“They won’t.”

Well, pardon him his doubts. “And I could ask you that question as well. Why are you awake? Given your current… _status_ , I’m surprised your paladins even let you down here.”

“They don’t decide where I go. And I’m fine. Nice of you to ask.”

“Are you?” With head tilted to the side, Sendak drew up to his full height. His mouth twisted into a sneer, staring down the smaller alien, “The worlds won’t wait for you, if you aren’t.”

The smaller alien did not flinch. “They never have before.”

Leaning back, Sendak circled the perimeter of his cell again. No, he would suppose they had not. There could be no waiting, there could be no recovering. Not for a slave or a gladiator or a paladin. Not for Shiro, not for Sendak, not for anyone. There was never any _time,_ that was the truth facing all beings in the universe. And it was a truth that could be borne, if only because it had to be, except for a simple problem,

“I don’t think I believe you.”

But without blinking, “I didn’t ask what you thought.”

That made his smile widen. He opened it far enough for Shiro to see his teeth. “Tell me. Is it still happening?”

Shiro bristled. Had his species quills, he’d have made for quite a sight. “No.”

“Well, then that would number you among the fortunate.”

“Guess so.”

This was starting to get annoying. “A pity with Haggar, there _are_ no fortunate.”

Shiro tried to hide his flinch at the name. “I’ve said I’m fine.”

“You’re no longer blood-poisoned,” Sendak conceded, without conceding anything. He folded his arms to match Shiro’s. Leaning to the side, he bumped his shoulder against the wall, ducking his head down. It would have brought him very close to Shiro’s face, had there not been the particle barrier between them. “Would you know what I think?”

“I’d rather not.” His snapping was juvenile. Sendak wondered if Shiro intended to remain so on edge for this entire conversation.

“I think,” he looked down, pitched his voice to sound unassuming, “that you aren’t done yet. I think that you ought to fear for yourself.”

Rolling his eye up, he met Shiro’s. “And I think that the only reason you’re standing here, trying to say differently, is that it’s already twisting your mind around.” This had horrified Shiro. Even delirious, it had horrified him. When Sendak let him go, and Shiro’s hands had started to drift?

Didn’t he wonder where that feeling had gone? “You ought to take better notice of that.”

But no, Shiro just looked bored. “Should you care about that?”

“Is there no longer an empire in need of toppling? I would rather you didn’t undo my work of bringing you back here.”

Shiro tilted his head, white forelock shifting with the motion. “Fair,” he offered a shrug. “Suppose I owe you for that now, don’t I?”

Why couldn’t the idiot listen? Shouldering off the wall, Sendak began to pace. “Did someone sedate you?” he asked. “You can’t always be this complacent.”

“There’s nothing I need to address.” Shiro lifted his chin in a challenge, giving Sendak a better view of his throat.

“So you’ve said.” As often seemed to happen, Sendak turned away from the temptation to crush it.

He paced and Shiro’s eyes followed him back and forth. “Nothing _new,_ ” came a little quieter.

“Is this denial or have you actually failed to notice?”

“What should I have noticed?”

“Genuinely, you think you’re well?”

“Right now, I’m annoyed.”

“Your hands are quiet?”

“Quiet enough.”

And Sendak stopped short, barking out a laugh. “And when you look away from them? What then?”

Head still up, Shiro met Sendak’s smile with a sharp frown.

But Shiro blinked first. 

“No,” he breathed quietly, looking away. “Not always.”

Not a right answer. Sendak raised an arm, hitching his elbow up against the wall of his cell, affecting a casualness he didn’t remotely feel. He raised his hand, motioning Shiro to continue.

Shiro’s mouth opened and closed, without saying anything, before he dropped his head down. To his credit, even _he_ was beginning to seem confused at his own indifference. Confused enough that he let it show on his face (Sendak hadn’t expected that; of his privileges here, to witness weakness would definitely be the most odd).

He watched the gears turn and jam in Shiro’s brain. His face was perplexed, like the proofs that governed his thinking had suddenly blanked out half their equations. Rationally, he seemed to know his answer was wrong, but he couldn’t discern why. And the lack of a reason only bewildered him more, and the cycle ran again.

To laugh at his trouble would have been rather cruel.

Sendak laughed loudly. The noise made Shiro’s head jerk up and his eyes narrow, weakness banished (good; it wasn’t seemly, Shiro showing that to him).

And Sendak watched something strange happen. Shiro’s gaze evened. He let it go. The glare and frustration receded. He shrugged once, confused over being confused, puzzled at whatever thing was eluding him. But he gave up on being bothered. If his thoughts didn’t add up right, it wasn’t a priority.

Indifferent again.

Unobtrusively, Sendak pulled in breath, drawing air over the roof of his mouth. He almost thought he caught a new scent. He hadn’t noticed it a few ticks ago. Just the barest trace; hot and dry, like ozone. But when he searched again, it was gone. Even just that little hint, vanished. And he realized it was likely just the particle barrier. Perhaps he was searching for an explanation, where there simply was none.

All at once, Sendak found this wasn’t funny any longer. Too many things were wrong here. It thundered in his brain, needy for a solution but too weighty to deal with. Abruptly, Sendak could feel every varga of sleep he’d lost, and he wanted Shiro to disappear, so he could resume just being bored.

Shiro wasn’t worried, but Sendak found his icy calm revolting. Every bit as revolting as it had been to see him, on board Sendak’s ship. When, even as their owner slumped insensate, his hands didn’t stop moving.

These were things Sendak hadn’t confronted in _years._ He paced, he couldn’t seem to keep himself still. It was strange for him, to observe it from the outside, but Sendak remembered how it had felt. The conviction. The equanimity. The calm surety that he was _right,_ however many well-meaning fools tried to tell him otherwise.

But underneath, it had been rotten. And in brief catches of clarity, Sendak would see that. It would peel back and he would recognize that yes, something was wrong with him. That _Right-Thought_ – soundness of mind, one of the virtues – had been stolen away and twisted until he couldn’t recognize it.

Then insight would retreat. And he would calmly resume tugging at his restraints. Working away at the cuffs, until orderlies came to remind him _no, don’t,_ like he was a kit with a bad habit.

It had faded. Slowly. Periods of insight stretched longer, Sendak took back his mind, one day at a time. He learned to stand on guard. His thoughts were right, were wrong, were horrid, were perfect, so he didn’t trust them. He learned wariness.

But here stood Shiro. Unconcerned and unbeleaguered. A touch bemused perhaps. Annoyed at the way Sendak pushed him. But his was not the face of someone confronting demons and forestalling them by will alone. He looked fit. Clear-eyed, at the ready, recovering well.

Sendak’s lips drew back from his teeth, “They shouldn’t have left you alone, should they?”

His patience was running very thin. Shiro wasn’t listening. If he could have, Sendak would have grabbed him by that long neck of his and shaken him. Would have unsheathed his claws, to open stripes on Shiro’s skin until that mindless look left his face, Sendak didn’t want to see it anymore.

Complacency didn’t suit him. The Earthling was built for viciousness, hadn’t Sendak said that? To stand so passively should have _embarrassed_ him.

Some part of Sendak’s brain was aware that he shouldn’t be breathing so fast, but that wasn’t the part he paid attention to.

“Your friend,” – _wanted to hear from you;_ what he wouldn’t give, just to have his old arm back – “asked me why you couldn’t just stop.” Just for a single tick, just enough time to close it again over Shiro’s head and shoulders, and pry lose some kind – any kind – of reaction. Sendak prowled back and forth. “Given vigilance, I told him you could.” His head swung in an arc, his growling so agitated that he struggled, just to carve words from it. “But you don’t look vigilant to me.”

Shiro frowned to hear of Sendak speaking to the other paladins. No, he didn’t like that at all. And he spared no mind to the rest. “There’s nothing wr-”

Sendak lunged forward and shot an arm out, slamming his fist against the barrier, right beside their faces. He loosed a snarl that rumbled in his chest, loud enough to shake his ribs and voice just a _hint_ of the frustration that would see him beat Shiro half to death, if only there weren’t a wall in the way.

Shiro’s face never flickered. He stood like he hadn’t noticed. Like he was blind.

Like he was blind, Sendak realized, but still though he could see. His eyes were open, were they not? He stood braced and readied against threats from without. But all the while, giving his back to threats from within, because he didn’t know he couldn’t see them. He only had one enemy, here.

But safe behind the walls of his Castleship, he had forgotten that that enemy _still wasn’t Sendak._

So, Sendak stopped growling. Sendak stopped snarling. Tension quivered in his limbs but he held his feet still. And he held his hand still, where it rested against the barrier.

“Do you know?" He leaned close, and he spoke very clearly, "Why I have this eye?”

There it was. Just a trace of unease. Shiro’s own eyes widened and then snapped narrow. Flashing with suspicion, lit with an awareness most unpleasant.

Sendak curled his lip into the sleepless, brutal sneer that had been patiently waiting all night. And he did tell him. He did tell Shiro how it had come to be that Sendak only had one eyeball in his head.

“– it all made sense.” He’d never spoken about it before. Never. Not to _anyone_ , but he spat it all in Shiro’s face.

“– however they warned, whatever they said, they were only fools–” Such had been his assurance. A pervasive confidence that hadn’t been real. That _still_ wasn’t real, Shiro couldn’t trust it.

Sendak knew he wasn’t there any longer.

But with every hissed secret and poisoned word, his steps came faster.

He shook his head because he _wasn’t there._

But the edges of his ocular piece grew sharper. He felt them dig at his eye socket, a parasite still hungry. He’d had this new arm. It was _important._ He knew what he was doing, _let go._ Don’t talk to him like he’s demented, _let go._

_Let go, let him go, he knows what he’s doing._

_“– or you will be sedated.”_

_He doesn’t need to be sedated_

_It’s slippery, he can’t get a grip on it. The skin on his hand is already raw. Half the fur is missing, from tugging it loose. His fingers are too thick, he can’t coordinate his claws to grip it._

_Tears, blood. Oil and mucus, it’s all too slippery_

_His eyelid keeps trying to shut, it gets in his way. He pinches it between thumb and forefinger, and he tugs. All he can smell is the blood_

_Pinching his eye in that same way. Careful._

_Spearing it with both claws. Get out, he wants it out._

_His vision goes dark, he can’t stop now_

_Suction._

_Pain._

_A squelching, a ‘pop’ and_

_finally_

_But why aren’t they impressed? He has it right here. He holds it high to show them. But they’re yelling. They won't listen they won’t be quiet please he can’t stop_

_All he can smell is blood_

_They try to take it_

_He scores lines into their faces, he flings them back_

_But wasn’t his other arm tied_

_All he can smell is the blood but_

_It didn’t smell like his. It didn’t_

_It didn’t_

smell like his.

His face was squashed against the floor, there was a hand fisted in the scruff of his neck. His world shrank to that. A hand at his neck, strange blood on the air. Two sensations, nailing him down in a present where there were no druids, no vitreous smeared down his cheek. A present wherein he was pinned. Blood on the air,

And a hand at his neck. Clamped down, reassuringly solid; an offer of asylum from the threat still dogging his mind. A hand at his neck, meant to calm him. Meant to appease, meant to _pacify him._

The outrage made him rear off the floor. One arm wormed up between himself and his assailant, and he _shoved._

It skidded across the floor, but he watched it get right back up. Yelling, still too much yelling.

He couldn’t coordinate his legs to stand; it was already approaching him again. He got one foot planted against the floor and he pushed up, crushing his attacker between him and a wall, driving his shoulder in as hard as he could.

This didn’t– His limbs wouldn’t work right, he was moving through tar. Fingers grabbed his scruff again and _yanked_ , the only input with any meaning.

He twisted against it, he grabbed for it wildly, but something upended his balance and he was on the floor again. Face shoved flat and he couldn’t tell up from down.

It was above him. It was behind him. He couldn’t make his arms work, but he whipped his head up and his teeth came out instead.

A yell told him it didn’t enjoy being bitten. But it didn’t let go. He smelled sweat, he smelled blood, he tasted blood. Not his, nothing like his. A sharp tang of _other,_ something else to anchor on. He pushed nearer to that, turning to nose his way along skin, breathing deeply because there were _not_ any druids here.

But it flinched and shrank away.

Looking up, he finally saw two eyes. Alien eyes, each showing three colors. Black. The thinnest ring of gray. White.

Shiro had let himself into the cell.

The grip on Sendak’s neck slackened with dizzying abruptness. Skin quivering, he breathed deeper. Let the scent run over the roof of his mouth, to finally begin to right his head. Shiro had let himself in. Shiro had… seen.

And run right in. 

He was talking, low and even, but Sendak couldn’t make anything of it. Limbs unwinding, Shiro moved to slip away. Unfortunately, as Sendak quickly discovered, his own hand was still clutched tight around Shiro’s arm. Exactly as it had been, likely for some time now.

A life’s worth of humiliations could not have prepared Sendak for this. His mind blanked, the muscle in his arm bunched up, and it was all he could do to shove Shiro away.

Sendak was twice his size, and Shiro met the wall hard. Breath knocked loose and gasping out in a rush, he sagged down with eyes blown wide. Not placid anymore.

He looked astonished. Well, Sendak was rather shocked himself.

He looked trapped. And wasn’t that good? Wasn’t wariness what Sendak had wanted from him?

Shoulders rounding, Sendak just slunk backwards. He tucked his arms against his sides, growling low to warn Shiro off. Yet, Shiro was looking smaller than he ever had. Nearly as small as when Thace had handed him over.

Sendak couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He just growled, and Shiro just stared.

The tableau might have held all night, but a noise – _drip, dripdrip, drip_ – made itself known, and time resumed its ticking. Shiro’s gaze slowly tracked down to his right, where droplets of red were landing at his feet.

Spell broken, Shiro was suddenly moving. Dark eyes fixed on Sendak, he scrambled away until his back met the barrier and slid right through it, nearly sprawling him on the floor.

When Sendak reached after, the barrier held implacably solid.

And there he remained, hand pressed against the field. Ears still pricked, even after the sound of Shiro’s uneven footfalls had faded down the hall. 

Sendak breathed out. He’d been tired before, but now he was dull with it. He looked down at his arm, to see red Earth blood smeared from his shoulder to his elbow. Shiro left him a mess, but he didn’t much feel like cleaning up.

He retreated to the soft bedding. It was too low. It felt unsafe. But Sendak crawled into it anyway, feeling wretched for many wrong reasons.

What exactly had that gained him?

Facing the cell’s entrance, he folded his arms. Burying his nose in his elbow and breathing deep of _other_ , he set himself to the task of sleeping.

He dreamt of Koltav, standing taller and stronger than he had ever lived to be. Hitting Sendak so hard that his other eye popped out and he was blind. And the strident sound of someone laughing.

It lingered in the morning, while he was wiping dried blood off the floor.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not bad for a first try, you two  
> But actually, yes bad for a first try. That went tits-up pretty fast
> 
> Now to the question of... Is anyone still reading? XD
> 
> EDIT: Actually, I have to be honest, this one is going to have to go on a little break. S3 really just... ganked the wind out of my sails. This fic is all Altered Mental Status!Shiro running all over the place, w/ an endgame in mind. But then S3 shows up w/ Altered Mental Status!Shiro, and _clone headcanons start flying_ , and suddenly the endgame no longer feels like something readership would accept. lmao, also I feel like I'm retroactively plagiarizing the show (which is dumb, I know).  
> I certainly haven't abandoned this, just... I may have to reconsider where we're going.

**Author's Note:**

> [Please, come say hello.](https://sassafrassrex.tumblr.com/)


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